The Con Man and the Suit
by megazorzz
Summary: COMPLETE. None-powered Clint/Phil AU. Clint is a hustler who prefers the term "Con Man." Phil is the head manager of an art gallery. The two meet and Clint can bring himself to con the man. Warning: There is a heavy implication of non-con happening to Clint, but none of it is explicitly described or recounted. This is a repost, since I forgot to post the chapters in correct order!
1. Chapter 1

Clint had about forty dollars in his pocket when he saw them across the bar. It was Friday. Through the smoke and general chatter, he saw glittering light glinting off of one fancy pair of cufflinks.

These were not your ordinary cufflinks. Clint had an eye for these things—conmen usually do.

They were white-gold—not plated white gold, solid—and he saw tiny gems in the light, even through the distance and intermingling bodies that separated them. His brother had always said he had good eyes. Clint made sure he used them. He also told him that they didn't hustle, they conned. "Huge difference," Barney had insisted on more than one occasion. Clint wanted to believe him—being able to call yourself a "Con Man" always sounded more dignified, if only a sliver more so than "Hustler."

He leaned over the bar and ordered another drink and reached in his pocket. What he thought was one twenty was actually a ten—all the more reason for him to make his mark tonight. He was sure he'd make it till tomorrow. Clint was always able to tell when someone was watching him and this man was certainly watching.

Clint took the olive out of his martini and popped it into his mouth innocently as he turned to face the room. He made a note not to catch the man's eye yet. No use in approaching the man too quickly. "Let your mark come to you whenever you can," Bucky had always said.

It was crowded here, but not unpleasantly so. It was a typical Saturday night he assumed from the way the bartender's aptly handled their posts. Good to know.

The smoke from the fog machines was thick with sweat and youth, which were both more reasons why the man at the corner table was so puzzling. Yes, there was a variety of men in their 20s and 30s, but this man was different. He was in his 40s maybe, seemed calm and devoid of the erratic, nervous flutter that the other patrons exhibited.

Clint's eyes darted to the man every now and then as he scanned the room. He had on a gray flannel suit that set him apart from the denim shirts and skinny jeans most of the other men wore. The suit's shoulders fit well over the man's and the back of the lapel didn't bunch up at the back of his neck. It fit well and it showed. Clint sipped his martini.

Clint's head bobbed slightly to the music, which was catered to a younger crowd. He was sure the man was still watching intently. These men prey on outsiders.

"I call 'em 'Suits,'" Barney had said. "They're just horny old fuckers trying to hide their filthy habits from their wives and kids. When they don't pass out drunk, they can't get it up. Makes the job easier for people like us." Clint inwardly scoffed—what a lie that was. Though he never could blame his brother though—he'd been at it for longer. Times change. He downed the rest of his drink.

After managing to exchange a couple cigarettes for another drink, he pretended to cruise, his hips swaying to the constant thrum of the crowd and rowdy clamor of music.

His hips worked their magic on the Suit. After Clint wove his way through the crowd to the bar, he was handed a drink from a passing bartender. "From the well-to-do man in the corner."

Clint feigned flirtatious surprise and tipped the glass in the man's direction as he made his way over. He was sure to respond to a couple advances on the way over—he wanted the man to work for it and to know that Clint had options. Lust clouds the eyes.

"Hey," Clint said.

"Hello," the man smoothly replied. Clint slid into the booth. "I haven't seen you around here before."

"You come here often?" Clint asked, though he already knew the answer—heard it countless times. It meant that the mark was comfortable in his space, more vulnerable to the smooth, convincing chain of untruths that Clint effortlessly wove together. It was easy for him by now. "I'm Barney," Clint said.

The man paused and sipped his wine. "Phil."

"Nice to meet you," "Barney" said, lowering his tone.

Phil returned his gaze. He loosened his tie. Clint avoided the glittering of his cufflinks, but oh, were they so much better up close. "So, what brings you to a place like this, Barney?"

Clint paused to drink and think. Phase one was always the most fun to employ. Why was he in Bar X this weekend? Would he be "newly single" and just looking for a plug to fill the hole in his heart? Or maybe he would be the casual "couch-surfer," free and loose, un-chaperoned by his hosts?

Phil was harder to read than most Suits. His lips were pressed into an almost-hard line, save for the flirty quirks at its corners. He eyed Clint intently, with an inscrutable ember smoldering behind them. Clint minutely squirmed beneath his gaze.

Clint didn't know if Phil wanted a one-night stand or someone to curl up against and clutch as he cried himself to sleep. The latter happened a bit more frequently than Clint ever thought it would, though the former was always the more dominant, unpleasant route.

Clint's mood soured behind his smile. Phil sipped his wine and then reclined in his seat.

Or was Phil one of those assholes who never got what was coming to them? Those men would sidle on over, lush in their expensive suits and with their Rolexes and gold pinky-rings, smutty looks of expectation smeared on their greasy mugs. They would stalk and approach Clint, willing to pay or say anything to take everything from him.

Well, at least that's how it used to feel. Now their advances were routine, words clichéd and ultimately forgotten in his glazed over mind. At least Clint had managed to stay afloat on a chain of these assholes. He didn't let the bitterness escape in his coquettish grin.

"I don't know, the music and lights, I guess," "Barney" started. "I just decided to pop in, that's all." He'd play the "young blood" type tonight. Usually works on grabby Suits. "Looks like a fun crowd."

"It usually is," Phil sighed. A server came with a frothy drink, set it down before Phil and pointed to another hopeful in the corner of the room. Clint pitied him, expecting Phil to shrug him off. But no, Phil smiled warmly and raised his glass.

"A friend of yours?" Clint asked.

"You can say that," Phil answered, confirming Clint's fear. Fucking men like that always got what they wanted: they bled guys dry and abandoned them in the dark recesses of their fucking skulls. "We still get together for coffee every now and then," Phil continued. "Smart kid."

"Oh," Clint blurted out with genuine surprise. He ordered another martini to calm his nerves.

He quickly dismissed the flowering hope in his gut—Phil still had plenty of time left to make Clint bitter. After all, they would be spending the night together. Clint downed his martini and Phil followed shortly after with his wine.

The suited man stood, silhouetted in the neon lights of the club, like an imposing inevitability. He stretched out his arm and offered him a hand. "May I have this dance, Barney?"

Clint let down his already quivering guard for an iota of a moment, glancing down at the cufflinks. "O-okay." No one had ever asked before.

His hand wrapped in Phil's firm and certain grasp, they weaved through the crowd to the dance floor, their ears' attention fully consumed by the bass and beat as glancing streams and clouds of light lit the hanging smoke ablaze. Clint gulped, not knowing how to proceed.

Clint's hands slid down to Phil's hips as they grinded against one another, eschewing any cares they had about wandering eyes and the crowd. Phil's eyes were fixed on Clint's, as the music grew loud and furious over the course of their tryst. There was no struggle for Clint to maintain his heated gaze. The other revelers seemed to fade into the distance as Phil's eyes seemed to ask Clint all on their own, "Can I kiss you?" Clint nodded softly as Phil's lips greeted his and Clint's tongue responded only a sliver beneath greedy and lustful.

The rocking ebb and flow of their dance was punctuated by a deep dip, Clint cradled in the man's solid arms. Clint almost smiled. The rhythm and pulse faded into a different tune as Phil again brought Clint up and his face close.

"Do you want to move this somewhere else?" He spoke into Clint's ear, sending a network of goose bumps veering down his side.

Clint blushed, half with embarrassment at his own boyish giddiness and half at Phil's intense gaze and the smile. "Yeah."

The check was waiting for them as they returned to the Suit's booth. They sat as Phil examined it. Clint feigned reaching for his wallet, but Phil staid his hand with a smiling glance.

He knew it. Phil was just another taker. He'd be expecting something in return for the $20 or so bucks that he spent on Clint's drinks. And he had almost fallen for it. His hands made clenched fists beneath the table as he stifled a sneer. Phil's smile softened. "Is something wrong? If so, we don't have to—"

"No, no, everything's fine. I just need to go to the restroom, that's all."

"Alright." Phil paused and seemed to consider Clint's words as his brow furrowed and lightened. "Did you check a coat or bag? I can get those for you while you wait in line, I don't mind."

Clint hesitated. Last time he let a mark do that, Clint ended up one cellphone short in the early morning hours. The fucker barfed into his bag, preferring to soil the meager contents of his bag over his leather-soled shoes. He grinned. The john was short one laptop and $300 cash by the time Clint fled into the morning mists, laughing and swearing.

But, as established as the patterns were in Clint's harsh considerations of the world, he felt like he could trust this Suit—at least enough to get his backpack and leather jacket for him. If the dance was any indicator, the Suit was nowhere near vomiting. Clint reached into his pocket for his ticket stub. "Sure…I'll meet you outside?"

"Of course."

Clint went to the restroom. In the mirror he considered his face and neck. He wondered if there would be any bruises the next morning like last time.

He reminded himself that men like Phil are all take, take, take. He's met nice guys before and it never ended well. "Why should it now?" Clint sighed, resignation sinking deep in his stomach. He puffed out his chest in the mirror, slapped his face a couple times, feeling only a scrap of it through the haze of his drinks. His stomach murmured a catty reply to his robust façade.

He'd fence enough of Phil's shit to eat and drink himself sick for the next week or so. If only Clint could steal his tears back.

He at last exited out into the crisp night air and spotted Phil, jacket and bag in hand. Phil carefully set the ratty bag on the sidewalk and held the jacket open for Clint, who cautiously slid his arms in. "Thanks for getting my things." Again, Clint's stomach made itself known.

"Are you hungry?" Phil asked, smiling and crossing his arms.

"I was gonna get dinner with my friends, but they never called so…"

"I know a place near here, if you're interested," Phil started, "It's just a few blocks away from here."

"Sure, sounds great," "Barney" lied. He forced a smile. Phil glanced at it then back up to Clint's eyes.

The man held out a leading hand.

* * *

Phil led Clint to a hole-in-the-wall kind of place. Trendy too.

"It's just basic Thai fare. But they do it well."

"Smells good," Clint said, inwardly scolding himself for being charmed by the joint.

The server seated the two near the back of the crowded restaurant. Phil pulled out a chair and Clint sat. People had tried to flatter him too many times to count over the years. The men would steal a touch or linger too long when helping him out of this or that cab. They both knew what they wanted—Clint's plan just always diverged from the Suits'. But Phil was in possession of an inexplicable grace in his gestures and compliments, almost as if a heart beat inside his chest.

"What do you do for a living?" the Con Man asked after their wine came.

"Oh come on," Phil scoffed and grinned. "You're really going to start our first date like that?"

"It's our 'first date,' huh?" Clint flirted, stroking the man's hand across the small table, mere inches away from his shimmering prizes. "So tell me, Phil, how should we start it?"

"Well," Phil leaned in close, "I want to know more about this beautiful man I happened to run into."

"So you want to know…?"

"What you do for a living…" Phil relinquished and the two shared a chuckle. "I guess clichés are clichés for a reason, huh?"

Damn charm. "Well—if clichés are clichés for a living—I'm sort of aimless right now…post-college blues, that sort of thing. It's been a couple years already…feels like I haven't done much," "Barney" lied. He had never even thought of going and thought that he never would. He had done a lot—just nothing that he wanted to.

"What'd you study?"

"This and that. I had to satisfy all of these requirements and whatever," Clint dodged.

"Alright. How do you pay the bills, then?"

"Barney" sighed, "I'm just a barista at some place uptown. Nothing exciting."

Phil's face softened and drank his wine. "You have a job though, so that's something, isn't it?"

Clint looked away, real inklings of regret and hopelessness escaping his mask. "It's something, alright."

"We don't have to talk about that if you don't want to."

"Thanks," Clint murmured.

There was a brief silence as the two sipped their drinks. The server came and took their orders and was off.

"Maybe I can get coffee with you sometime."

"Are you seriously asking me out on a second date on our first? Stalker," Clint teased. He was sure to lean in and touch the man's shoulder, feigning coquetry. Eight out of ten times the mark would run with it, and Clint would eat the next day. Not many of them took him to dinner first. And none of their eyes gleamed with sincerity.

"There's something about you I can't put my finger on," Phil purred.

"Oh really? What do you think it is?"

"Well—and just roll with me on this one—you look like you've lived life."

"That's putting it charitably," Clint thought bitterly.

"You saw all those other 'hot, young, things' at the bar. I like some of them well enough—the bartenders always call me 'Daddy Coulson'—and I'm friends with a few of them but…" Phil trailed off, gathering his thoughts.

"But what?"

"They all try to act like something they're not," the suit started, "With their spiked boots and studded jackets. But you…you just feel…so genuine."

"I'll bite," Clint chuckled, actually curious, "how am I 'genuine?'"

"For one thing," Phil nodded his head toward the bag at Clint's feet, "you like traveling, obviously."

"It's just a ratty bag…"

"It's not the bag itself, but what it represents." Phil gestured, hands sweeping from left to right. "Other people at that club sew patches purposefully poorly to their denim jackets, wrap duct tape around the straps of their bags because they want to instill some essence of, say, a 'Punk' or 'Bohemian' lifestyle using a system of signs and signifiers. But your bag is the real deal, it's seen it's fair share of beatings and repair. And you've kept it all this time. Held onto it." Phil paused and laughed, "Sorry, you must think I'm a real windbag, it's just my job. It messes with my thinking sometimes."

"What do you do for a living?" Clint snickered. "Now that we've organically reached the question—"

"I'll answer it," the Suit finished for him. He straightened his dark tie. "I like to think that I'm an art critic/curator—really I just do managerial duties. I work at 'Walker & Otogi' over on 13th street. There's an internship that you should remind me about later. It's for the fall and spring.""

"Ah. It all makes sense now. You prowl and drink at clubs so you can put it on the company card, huh?" Clint chided. "Fucking art-types," Clint's mind rattled, "Probably lured in a ton of vulnerable, naïve kids in that way."

"It has certain benefits," Phil said darkly, rimming the edge of his glass with his index finger. "I have to keep a pulse on what young people like so I can sell it to people my age." He sighed and looked away.

Phil motioned to the diligent server for a refill. "And besides, if all young people were as interesting as you seem to be, then the gallery would have more variety."

"We haven't known each other for that long," Clint shot back jokingly, "How d'you know I'm not an airhead?"

"Just call it 'intuition,'" Phil offered, tone even and calm and knowing smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

Clint let loose exhausted laughter, which spiraled upwards and died out in the restaurant's din.

The steaming dishes arrived soon thereafter and they continued their banter, Phil laying the compliments thick and 'Barney' appearing to take them in stride.

* * *

After Phil again got the check ("Remind me to pay you back one of these days, Phil," "Barney" offered.) the duo decided to head back to Phil's apartment for a nightcap. Clint fidgeted and squirmed the whole way over. "Is something wrong?" Phil asked.

"Just have to go again is all," Clint said, trying to ignore the concern laced in Phil's tone and painted on his face.

"We're pulling up to my place now."

Phil swiped his card and they were out of the cab.

Phil Coulson greeted the doorman and firmly pressed the "up" button at the art-deco elevator, a sign of a high society still extant and breathing hot down Clint's neck in all the cities he had drifted through over the millennia-long years. It lurked in every drink and every time he scrubbed himself clean.

"Classy," Clint commented. The doors glided open and whisked the two up to the 23rd floor. Clint noticed that this building had two apartments to a floor instead of one, imposing one—one where the elevator opens up into the apartment itself.

"Neighbors?" the Con Man asked.

"They're out of town most of the time," Phil said, the jingling of keys attending his door.

Clint hiked up his backpack and searched the corners of the corridor for cameras. Only one attended the hall—he could deal with that. He subtly shifted his face away from its lens.

The door swung open, revealing a simply decorated, yet lux interior. Angular furniture, neutral gray color palette, Clint had seen it before, but at least it was better than the nouveau-riche set, ones who preferred gaudy, gold caryatids and lavishly embroidered, crushed-velvet curtains. Btu at least such interiors afforded him a cheap laugh the next morning, as he and Barney met for coffee and to compare their hauls like some horrible, perverse trick-or-treaters.

"There's a closet by the door if you want to put your things there," Phil called from the kitchen. "And the bathroom's in the back, second door on the left."

Clint haphazardly dumped his jacket and bag on the floor. It would be faster to grab them and run later if he needed to; and there was a stolen KA-BAR in case shit got serious. He made his way to the back and closed the door quietly behind him.

He turned on the faucet and splashed his face. His vision blurred. His reflection swayed. His breath was even and smooth, but his mind raced.

The Suit was too courteous and too sweet; after a display like that, most pervs proved doubly cruel once their targets lay pinned beneath their money and sweat. He shook his head, puffed out his chest and flushed the toilet.

The Suit was seated on the black couch tie off and jacket deposited in his bedroom closet. His shirtsleeves were pushed back, but the cufflinks remained fastened.

He placed two crystal tumblers and a decanter on the table. "Just in case you want any," Phil said.

"You're quite the drinker aren't you?" "Barney" teased.

"Only when I'm nervous," Phil confided.

As the scotch poured into the tumbler, Clint crept closer across the expansive couch. "Makes two of us then," Clint uttered, only half-fibbing.

Phil blushed in the low light as 'Barney's' lips went in for the kill. "You don't have to be anxious. Just a first date," he managed as his mouth brushed against Phil's bared neck and his fingers ran through the light cover of his chest hair. Phil groaned at his touch. He set his drink on the glass table, accepting Clint between his thighs.

Phil winced at the baring of teeth and Clint clutching his strong legs. "You've done this before, haven't you?" the Suit whispered.

"If only you knew."

Clint felt hands creeping down his sides. He shut his eyes tighter, wincing against the world and his life, until he heard Phil ask, "May I?"

The Con Man opened his eyes. His hands kneaded Phil's chest and had undone three buttons. He shouldn't have but he did. Clint nodded and his black t-shirt was soon folded on the table. Clint licked his away into Phil's mouth, ravenous and hungry.

Phil leaned up into him, reciprocating; his fingers glided across Clint's back. They stopped and lingered at when he flinched. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing. Just a bad memory." He held Phil's hand and guided it away from the scar.

"When did that happen?"

"Did what happen?" Clint tried to evade his scrutinizing gaze, but he already knew he'd end up spilling.

"I know what scars feel like, Barney," Phil said, trailing his fingers along his straddler's legs. "You can tell me."

Clint took a deep breath. "Arizona," he started. "I was cornered. Some—some guy was pursuing. He had a gun…" Clint paused. If it weren't for the cashbox and computer in his bag, then the bullet would have ripped through the tender flesh of kidney and the lattice of veins. "I was visiting someone down there over break—back when I was at school. I had a textbook and my laptop in my backpack…"

It was only part truth—but uttering it expressed real tremors in his tone. Clint wiped his eyes ("At least it makes lying easier," Barney had always said).

"My god, Barney." Phil sat up, placing his strong hands on the Con Man's chest. "You're a lucky man…" Phil trailed off.

"Don't I know it," Clint whispered. Barney wasn't so fortunate.

Phil's eyes darted away and back. He considered Clint's face and chest, breathing deeply. "We ought to wait."

Clint's heart pitched and raced. "Wait for what?" He was too close for the Suit to back out now.

"I mean, I'm fine where this is going," Phil said low, "But maybe it's better. We only met a…" Phil looked at his watch. "How is it already four in the morning?" he groaned.

Clint buried his face at Phil's neck, leaving a trail of spit and licks. "Come on…it's still early. Use me. Please." Phil considered him with wary eyes and Clint felt the surge of blood beneath him Phil gasped at his insistent gasps.

"Do you need money for a cab? There's always Sunday—"

"Can I sleep over?" Clint almost begged. "It's really late…"

"Of course you can…I can take the couch, if you want."

Clint wanted to bark and yell, to tell Phil to shut fuck up and stop his kindness-without-consequence. But, Clint's gaze had attended Phil more and more over the course of the night. The concern, the furrowed brows and caresses were imbued with a rigid static that no liar could conjure. Clint knew what it was to lie. He was well acquainted with the network of hormones and the infinitesimally small shocks that ran long his synapses and tongue until they finally died out in the ears of a sweating Suit. The cufflinks and whatever fucking else this man had slid into the back of his mind—he could steal Phil if he could, but his road was one he traveled alone now.

"Can you show me the way?" Clint asked, beginning his retreat.

"Of course." Phil stood and took Clint's hand and led him to the back. The bedroom was sparsely decorated, but soothing. Phil crossed the plushy gray carpet and deposited his cufflinks in a black velvet box on the dresser. "There are more blankets in the closet if you get cold."

"You know, we could always—"

Phil chuckled and silenced Clint with a finger on his lips. "No, no," he yawned. "Let's take it slow, okay?" Phil went to the closet and deposited his shirt. "Brunch tomorrow?"

"Huh?" Clint was caught off guard. "Yeah, yeah. Sure."

With one last sweep of the tongue over his, Phil said his goodnights and went to the living room.

Clint cautiously eyed the velvet box as he settled into bed.

He and his brother never thought of it as stealing. It was always more of a transaction to them and what they traded the watches and rings could barely cover.

Clint woke with a start. The sun peaked through the curtains and crept over the carpet. He desperately searched for a clock. Noon already. He assumed his routine and shuffled to the living room. Phil was nowhere to be found, save for a note in neat script on the glass table. "Had to go to the office early. Just a stupid emergency. Will a late lunch do?" Scrawled beneath was a posh name and address. Clint folded it and put it in his pocket.

Guilt sat heavy in his throat as he again eyed the box. He heard it rattle as he placed the box in his backpack, unable to bear the sight of his thievery.

* * *

He gingerly held the box as he stood in front of the pawnshop. Normally he'd be reveling—nursing his wounds. But the lump in his throat grew bigger with every step. He slowly placed it back in his bag without looking where it fell. As he pulled out his wallet to see his meager stash, the note fluttered to the ground like some rare bird. He picked it up and eyed the address.

* * *

"Barney! Over here!" Phil waved him over. Clint approached, legs and lip trembling. Phil had on his glasses and a charcoal suit that hugged his shoulders and a striped shirt that hugged his chest that his fingers only hours ago stroked. "How'd you sleep?" Phil smiled. "Won't you sit?"

Clint had no answer except to pull out the black box. He placed it on the table as Phil's lips parted and sighed. "I knew there was something about you."

"Well…you were right." Clint hiked up the bag and began to leave when Phil placed an identical box on the table and opened it to reveal the glistening gold. Clint's breath stilled and died in his chest; Phil only smiled.

"I wanted to see what you would do," he quietly offered. He then pulled the KA-BAR and placed it on the box.

Clint was still speechless. He could only obey when Phil motioned for him to sit. Phil ordered for the two of them. "Just orange juice to drink for now, thanks."

The Suit—no, Phil laid his napkin on his lap and leaned in close. "How long has it been?"

"Been what?" Clint choked out, tears beckoning behind his eyes.

"On the run? Homeless maybe?" Phil murmured low.

"Forever…" Clint struggled. Then a smile crept across his brow, though it still had yet to reach his mouth. "How'd you know I wouldn't rob you blind? Why'd you even give me a chance?"

"Just call it 'intuition.'" The server brought them their juice. "I wasn't taking a huge risk. My truly valuable things are in a safe under my bed." Phil smiled wider. "I also used to be a cop, if that helps."

"How do you know I'm not lying now?" Clint choked out, heart beating and yearning—simultaneously waiting for Phil's hand and handcuffs.

Phil only tapped the box that Clint set down.

"So what?" Clint started indignantly. "We go out on more dates? Get married?" Clint reached into his battered bag and tossed a cheap cell on the table. "Here's my disposable. Why don't you put your number in it?"

At that Phil picked up the silver plastic phone and punched in his number. "That oughtta do it," he said.

Clint could only giggle uncomfortably and pinch his brow. "What are you doing?"

The server returned and Phil ordered a Bloody Mary. "I don't know what I'm doing either, 'Barney.'" Phil made air quotes. "Do you need an explanation for why I'm drawn to you? I can't give you one—maybe I'm just some weirdo, or maybe your head's too full of justifications for that scar on your back and God knows where else." Phil huffed and leaned back. "Maybe I'm just lonely and maybe you're sick enough of your life to humor me."

Maybe so, maybe not. When Clint wasn't venting anger and bitterness, he spent the early morning hours on the bus or train explaining to himself why he'd always be trash and why others would use him up and toss him away. Phil only gazed at him with those blue eyes. His jiggling knee and foot told him to make a run for it, but the longer he held his expectant stare, and the louder his stomach growled and the more his mind swooned in the emotional fallout of this man's touch and tongue, the less he'd be able to forgive himself for throwing himself in the gutter.

Phil crossed his arms and cocked an eyebrow. Clint wiped his eyes and took off his jacket, dumping it on the floor next to the table. "Okay. Okay. Sure."

Phil let loose a sigh of relief and blushed. "Really? Then let's start over, shall we?"

"Lead the way," Clint scratched the back of his head, sending away his hesitation's last itch. "I've never been on a real date before."

Phil reached across the table, taking Clint's rough hand in his. "I'm Phil Coulson. Nice to finally meet you." He kissed his hand. "And this isn't a date. It's an interview for an internship that's recently opened up."

"My name's Clint. Clint Barton." He grinned—confused but unafraid. "Sorry, I didn't bring my resume."


	2. The Intern and the Boss

It was about 2:00 in the morning. In the window of a nice, if somewhat touristy diner on the east side, two men sat across from one another in a cramped booth. One had on a suit, a Glen check with narrow lapels, and a periwinkle shirt, top two buttons undone. The gap left several small red and purple marks along his collarbone plain to see, but he was tired and it was late. He was in his mid to late forties.

The man across from him was maybe eight or nine years younger, rough around the edges, jaw loose, but ready to lock in at the sign of any trouble—he almost pouted. He had on a leather jacket and a plain t-shirt with ragged holes about the seams. Some matching marks decorated his throat. The two were flushed.

The older man ran his fingers through his thinning hair, careful to smooth out the roughness the younger man visited upon him in bed. He breathed in and the younger one tensed, expecting a verbal strike.

"I'm going to have to ask you some things."

"Like what?" Clint looked out onto the street, unable to meet his gaze. Maybe it was too good to be true. What would this man say? "Sorry but I was only thinking with my cock, we should not live together?" or "On second thought, I'd rather our intern have at least a high school education and know shit about art?"

"Well for starters, where were you born?" Phil smiled softly, but there was no happiness in it.

"Nowhere."

"Come on, it has to have a name." He wove his fingers together, practically a beggar's gesture.

"Some bumfuck town in one of those square-shaped states no one talks about," Clint conceded. He sighed, and began staring bores into his unfinished ice cream.

"And?"

"'And' what?"

"What about your family. Surely you had one."

"Not one worth talking about." Clint's scoop of ice cream sank and melted in its mint colored bowl.

"No one? No one ever made you smile? No brothers or sisters or cousins?" Phil rested against the vinyl booth seat, tentative.

Clint only glared, feeling the scar smolder on his lower back, begging for release. Clint doused it and stared at Phil.

Phil held up his hand. "Message received. We don't have to talk about it right now." He shifted. "Now I know you didn't finish high school, but there are tests you can take in the city. Get your degree equivalent, at least."

Clint scoffed. "You're gonna make me do homework?"

"If you don't like the idea, then—"

Clint seized Phil's clutched hands. "No, no, no, I didn't mean it like that." He had to tread carefully. Phil could rescind his offer for a job—a new life. "It's just…" He chuckled uneasily, "Never thought I'd be in this situation, y'know?"

Phil smiled warmly. "I'm glad to hear it—that you want to stay, I mean." He finished his tea and asked the server for the check. "We are going to have be careful, set up some boundaries. And a schedule. But we can work that out tomorrow. I'm sure we're both a bit exhausted."

Clint smiled a small, cautious smile. "We are." He dragged his spoon through the soggy ice cream mound and let it drip. "What about you? Do I get to ask you anything."

"Go for it."

"Where were you born?"

"Brooklyn, born and raised."

"Any siblings?"

"Only child. My father worked and my mother kept the house spic and span, while tutoring on the side."

"All-American family," Clint said, leaning in on his elbows. "What about the gallery? You own it?"

"Eugene Walker and Kaori Otogi do, but they are constantly flying in and out of JFK. They live in plush, first-class seats more than in their own apartments."

"Well, I know your pay is good, at least," Clint said. He waved away a server. "But why art? Never saw the appeal of it myself."

"It takes some adjusting, that's for sure. I still hate most of it. But," Phil said, pushing up his glasses, "when I find something that truly gives me pause, that challenges me, turns the mirror on my sorry face, well…it makes digging through the trash worth it."

* * *

Clint sat up and stretched. The clock on the microwave read 7:53 am. He left his nest on the pullout couch and started the coffee machine, scratching the sides and the trail of hair at his navel. It was a Monday.

Sometimes he still couldn't believe he was here. He pulled out Phil's favorite mug—his tacky Metropolitan Museum of Art mug emblazoned with a Gauguin painting; "A good reminder that the racist asshole was absorbed into capitalism's maw," Phil explained—and his favorite, a plain black mug with noticeable white cracks. The water bubbled.

He got to work slicing oranges and boiling eggs, thankful for a full fridge and pantry. Normally he woke up alone in a crusty motel room, or worse in the grasp of some Suit. He banished the image from his mind and concentrated on preparing breakfast.

After that afternoon—what they still awkwardly called their "first date"—Phil took Clint home, hands gripped by a slight tremor, partially from excitement and partially from what Clint guessed was fear. He'd be afraid too, having some wayward, would-be con man settling in on his expensive couch and hoping that what seemed like a convincing sob story was truth.

In spite of the tension, the last couple months passed with little incident. Phil had been teaching Clint things the gutter never did: office manners, Microsoft Office, the ins and outs of his hellish fax-machine. Of course the particulars of the office had to take place after hours. Clint didn't question Phil's secretiveness. After all, Walker & Otogi would soon have an ex-criminal working in their ranks.

The coffee drained into the pot. Clint crept over to Phil's bedroom door. He rapped it lightly. Phil was a light sleeper. He always heard Clint's occasional slumbering cries and starts in the night. Phil was always there when the nightmares drove him into wakefulness. And he always lulled him back to sleep with his calm, even voice.

Clint rapped again, his signal that he was coming in. Phil swung his legs over the mattress.

"Morning," he said. Clint pulled open the shades and sat next to him. Phil wiped the sand from his lashes and pecked Clint on the cheek. "Coffee on?"

"Yessir," Clint beamed. He loved sleepy Phil. "What's on the agenda today?"

Phil stood up and stripped his baggy shirt in exchange for his running attire. "After breakfast and a run, we're going to head over to the library for more studying and then to the tailor to pick up your shirts and slacks."

Clint lounged on the firm mattress. "Your bed's so comfy though." Clint ran his fingers over his chest. He liked how these tiny gestures swiftly brought the blood to Phil's face. It was sweet in a way, though they mutually agreed to lay off the sex for now. "We need to concentrate on getting you work ready," Phil had said. "And I know it sounds a bit silly, given our circumstances, but I don't want to move too fast." Clint had nodded in agreement, already missing Phil's firm hand.

He wouldn't be a fuck up, he promised. It was a difficult condition for the two to follow. Feverish trembling frequented them, put their convictions to the test, but they had ways of coping. Clint hooked a finger into Phil's pocket and led him over to the bedside. They never said anything about above-the-waist matters. Loopholes relieve stress.

* * *

He enjoyed the parks in the morning, having been one who only lingered there in darkness and twilight. Traces of autumn filled his nostrils as he jogged. Phil kept a steady, but manageable pace, though sometimes Clint pulled back to catch a peek of Phil's ass through his short's thin veil. Phil considered it average at best, but he seemed to allow it.

Their jogs gave a fresh start to each day. Routine slowly wormed its way back into Clint's life. Earlier his freer hours found him with the bottle, numbing his sense of place and time. No past accessible, and no future imaginable, Clint got wrecked and checked out.

Phil pointed him forward and they turned down a path, feet grinding the gravel.

He was starting work in about a week, and his GED test was scheduled for November. His head felt free of the blurred, leaden burden of uncertainty. Tuesday through Saturday, Phil worked during the normal 9-5 routine and Clint always kept the apartment clean, save for his spot on the couch. And he also made sure to make his study literature plainly visible, evidence that he had been studying and keeping to Phil's timeline.

He looked at Phil, admired his stern, rigid gait and the light stubble that he allowed himself on his days off.

Occasionally on their runs or in the street they ran into Phil's old buyers or members of the gallery's platinum club or someone he met at this or that gala. Clint was always "a friend of a friend," or his "personal trainer." Clint was used to concealing himself but wearied of it. "In time," Phil had said to him late at night, "you can meet the people in my life. We just need to be careful."

During those initial weeks he was relieved and at others ceased by doubt, caught between feeling like a hidden treasure—protected—and feeling like something put in an old shoebox deep in the closet.

But it was nice having someone look after him, or, at the very least, waking up to the same ceiling in the mornings. He was thankful when Phil was around for when they inevitably ran into Suits on their outings or jogs. The one today was no different than the others. Lean or heavy, tall or short, Clint always caught the puffy eyes of a night spent drinking and the bustling hive of nervous jitters that clutter their extremities, as if they have done something last night that shouldn't have—something instinct frequently verified. Clint held on to his hisses, leaving them to stew and slither in his gut.

Clint always thought that Phil would scold him, tell him to let go and move on. He always grazed Clint's shoulders with a concerned touch and today was no different. "Don't pay him any mind. He's going to regret his decisions, one way or another," Phil said.

And then they would continue their jog, letting Clint stamp out his past.

* * *

After their separate showers, they headed to the library. Clint shrugged on his leather jacket and swung his rucksack over his shoulder.

"You ready?" Phil asked. He liked the jacket, the snaps and the diagonal zipper. "Have your prep-books?"

"Right here," Clint answered, pointing to his rucksack.

Phil checked his mailbox and they were off. The library was a bit of a walk, but Phil always preferred that to taking the subway only three stops. Clint never felt included in the bustle of the city, but on their walks to the library he was emboldened by purpose.

Once they were settled in their usual spot, Phil took out his old digital watch and started the timer.

Clint had never been one to be hemmed in by a deadline. He always figured that he was living on borrowed time, so why keep track of it? But the minute Phil's watch beeped, his eyes rapidly scanned the paper like a hawk choosing its prey, like it was a life and death moment and in a way, he guessed, it was. Degrees and shit are important, after all.

And so, after three or four practice tests he learned to divide and keep track of his seconds, while filling in small ovals and while cuddling with Phil on the couch.

A, B, C, D, or E. They were doing vocabulary and reading comprehension today; Phil suavely crossed one leg over the other and read his newspaper. Every couple of minutes, he'd peek over the top at Clint. He couldn't help but grin; Clint always had a habit of licking his lips as his eyes scanned the pages, letting the tip rest on his lower lip every now and then. It was cute.

He tapped his watch, their signal for the closing time gap.

"Will all students please put down their pencils and close section 1 of their tests?" Phil quietly announced, lending his officious air to his command.

Clint did as he was told; he loved the edge in Phil's command, but kept it to himself. He slid the book across the table and waited eagerly for Phil to finish checking his answers. A small crook of his mouth and he said, "Well done, Clint. Much better than last time. Now let's do that again."

Clint could only beam.

* * *

After retreading western art history basics—the classical, the religious, the Neo-Classical ("Clingy, emotional assholes," Phil had called them), the modernists, constructionists and every other "-ists" that Phil could conjure up—Phil and Clint were finally on their way home. He palmed his pockets to see if his keys were there.

Clint switched hands. They each held a few medium-sized brown paper bags filled with trousers and shirts in varying shades of charcoal and black. He'd even have somewhere to put them too. No more stuffing and hauling his backpack for this guy.

The clicking of Phil's shoes stopped as he paused to look into his tailor's storefront. A cascade of jackets and shirts in varying states of tailoring littered the warmly lit display.

Phil felt a squirm over his shoulder. "Not yet, Clint. But soon," he said reassuringly, as if he were telling him the sun would rise the next day.

"Do I have to?" Clint presented his bags as evidence. "I mean, all of these should be enough, right?" He hoped he wouldn't have to wear a suit anytime soon. Though he's warmed up to Phil's frame in them, the way his suits hugged his shoulders and mid-section, he still couldn't overcome the connotations and the load of drunken sweat.

Phil gave a weak smile and brought him close. "For now, for now." Clint blushed as Phil's evening stubble brushed the nape of his neck.

"Well, if I gotta get one, then I'm paying for it," Clint said.

* * *

Clint was awake at 5:00—too edgy to sleep, though he guessed he got enough. He went to the bathroom for a cold shower.

The cool water did little to soothe his nerves. He raked and raked his mind, but everything Phil had taught him about computers was absent. Who was Manet anyway? Or D**ü**rer? Would anyone even ask? Would anyone care how much he knew about art? Soap and a shave and he was finished grooming. He stared at his reflection, puffed out his chest and slapped himself just hard enough to sting.

Phil was waiting when he emerged, Gaugain mug in hand.

"Can't sleep?" He sipped his coffee.

"No, just felt like getting up early—see the sunrise or some shit," Clint lied.

"Come here." Phil patted the foldout mattress. Clint took his seat beside him, towel threatening to slide down as he walked over. "There is no reason to be worried at all—if zit-ridden college students can handle it, so can you."

"And you won't get mad if I fuck up?" Clint asked, bowing his head.

"Everyone messes up." He turned toward Clint. "You, me, every damn person in this city."

"Ok," Clint retreated toward the hall closet to retrieve some sweats.

"I'll make us breakfast."

* * *

Buttoned up and conventionally presentable for what must have been the first time in years, Clint followed Phil through the heavy glass doors of Walker & Otogi. Phil led him to the small kitchen. Three others stood around the coffee machine, greedily clutching their mugs and eating plump bagels.

"Good morning, Mr. Coulson," said a fiery redhead. "Is this the new one?"

"Yes." He put on his authoritative visage. Everyone's eyes were on him. Clint only coughed and stood erect, unsure of how to pose himself. His hands fidgeted with the buttons of his cuffs so he whipped them behind his back, in what he supposed was a professional stance, at least in a military sense, he guessed. He didn't know.

He couldn't pinpoint his anxiety. In a bar or strip club, he commanded the floor. But here, in the small kitchen, he could only look at his freshly polished shoes, whose sheen seamed to mimic the glaze of sweat erupting on his forehead. It was his first chance—maybe even his last one—to stitch together another existence. Make Barney proud, or at least put him at ease.

"Would you care to introduce yourself?" Phil elbowed him softly in the ribs.

"Hey gang…My name's Clint Barton." He managed an awkward wave.

The others only stared glumly back.

"Natasha," the redhead said curtly. "Natasha Romanoff. Assistant manager." She wore a form-fitting blouse with a high neckline. Her trousers tapered down to a pair of streamlined boots with practical heels. Her nails were cut short and only bore a plain clear coat of lacquer. He knew immediately not to give her any lip. She gave Clint a once over with an unreadable expression, one hand resting on her hip. She glanced intently at Phil and then motioned for the other two to introduce themselves.

The other two were skittish interns, but much younger—college kids. The first was named Denise Kim and the second was Jake Owen. They said their quiet hellos—obviously intimidated by the older ruffian—and re-glued their eyes to their phones. So far so good.

Phil then led Clint to the front desk. "Here's the rotation schedule," he pointed to clipboard. "From 9:30 to 11:00 you will be assisting Natasha with the mailing list and our database. Several pieces were delivered last week and we need to update their status. From 11:00 to noon, you will be on gallery watch duty—making sure that people keep their distance, refraining from flash-photography and so on, Denise or Jake can fill you in on etiquette and duties." They both knew that they had been over them hundreds of times by now, but Phil said that in order to build up the illusion that they knew each other only professionally, not through the skin and hickeys of a late night encounter. "Then it's lunch hour from noon to 12:30."

"Then why is it called 'lunch hour?'" Clint joked.

Phil shot him a pointed look. "Because I am the head manager."

Clint ran a hand through his hair. "Right. Sorry, Ph—Mr. Coulson."

Phil glanced over his shoulder. The rest of the staff was still in the kitchen. "No, you can still call me Phil," he whispered, "Just don't, you know, flirt or fraternize on hours. I don't want the rest of them knowing about our…arrangement."

Clint nodded and ignored the slight pang at his heartstrings. But Phil was right. Still it would be hard to resist him. Phil wore a herringbone suit in deep navy, paired with a textured checked tie in gray.

He reached into his breast pocket and gave Clint a set of keys and checked his watch. "It's 9:08 now. Denise and Jake will show you what to do when you have to open shop." He called them in. "If you'll excuse me."

Denise was petite and barely came up to Clint's collarbone, while Jake loomed awkwardly overhead. Denise pulled out her own set of keys. "The big one with the blue plastic part is for the front doors."

The duo then led him to a covered circuit board near the back corner of the expansive gallery space—the blinding White Cube that Phil had ranted so much about. Denise held out a hand. "This controls the lighting system on the west side of the gallery." She fiddled with her ring of keys, taking care to examine each one before moving on. "Just a sec. I can never remember which one opens the dang thing." She brushed the hair out of her eyes. "All the smaller ones sort of look alike, just give me a minute." Jake did nothing to offer her any aid instead choosing to lean against the wall. He rubbed his fatigue-ringed eyes. "I definitely overdid it last night," he groaned.

"No one cares, Jake," Denise hissed. She dropped her keys.

"Let me have a look," Clint said. Denise tried handing him her keys, but he motioned for her to step aside. He whipped out a couple paperclips from his trousers and got to work on the simple lock. Before Denise could utter a questioning syllable, the little door popped open, revealing a set of switches, some of which were marked with red tape. "Now what do I gotta know about these?" Clint asked.

Denise's jaw hung open in awe. "Uhm—the red ones are the ones that need to be turned on in the morning. Different displays require different lighting schemes, but since we have flat-images right now—"

"You mean paintings?" Clint interjected.

"Right. Since we're displaying paintings right now, we only need the angled lights." She put her keys away and showed Clint the rest of the gallery's guts: the double-doors to storage, janitor's closet, the other circuit board, and the intern's research space and Phil's office.

Jake trailed behind and feigned interest in the pieces that lined the walls, pausing only to consider Clint with beady, bloodshot eyes.

"What's up with that guy?" Clint stuck a thumb over his shoulder.

"Jake? He's an ass," Denise scoffed. "He's just some frat-bro who had to get an internship or else his rich parents would suspend his allowance. He just barely gets his work done here."

"That's a laugh."

"What about you? You seem like an untraditional sort of guy," Denise commented.

"That's an understatement. I mean, well, I'm going back to school and everything," he lied. "Internships are part of the program. Picked this one out from a list, I guess."

"I see."

They parted ways in front of Natasha's office. She stood on her toes to reach his ear. "Don't be afraid of Ms. Romanoff. She'll get used to you," she whispered.

"Thanks. See ya later," Clint said.

He puffed out his chest and knocked. "Come in."

He entered the sparsely furnished office, no nonsense, like she was. Again she considered him with cool, contemplative eyes. Clint could see wheels turning behind her stone-set inspection, but not their output.

"This is it," he thought, "I'm caught. She recognizes me, or thinks I slept my way here." But in spite of his doubting thoughts, he held himself as confidently as he was able. If the other interns were any indicator, then he was already far ahead. While Denise was amiable and competent, it seemed as if her meek manner stifled her. And Jake was just another asshole who'd slip by on his dad's coattails for the rest of his life. Clint had eyes, and people were easy to read. Except for the imposing woman seated before him.

"Please sit," Natasha said. Her fingers raced across the keyboard as he found his spot.

"You have experience with ArtStor," she stated, as if referring to a previous edict that Clint had already bent to.

"Of course," Clint rejoined. Phil made sure he'd live up to the resume that seemed to evaporate from thin air into her firm hold. While it was half-fake, but Phil had also taught him the banter found in art consulting firms and galleries spattered across New York like so much paint.

"Good. Now over on the other desk is the intern's computer. Now I don't have to tell you not to dawdle or mess around?" Assuredness pulled her red lips up into a smile that left her eyes be.

"No, you don't have to." Clint rolled his way over to the white round desk, which, if not for the shadow cast by the blinding halogen, would disappear entirely into the white space. Natasha handed him a slip of paper.

"Here is your username and password. Memorize it."

"Will do," he scratched the back of his head. "What should I call you? Ms. Romanoff or Nata—"

"Ms. Romanoff," she informed him coolly. She then handed him a formidable stack of papers. "Here are the changes that need to be made to the member database, the newsletter subscriber lists—both paper and digital, event calendars and our artist database. I expect the changes to be made in twenty." She picked up her folder and clipboard. "Now I have a brief, private call to make."

Clint got to work, employing all the shortcuts that Phil had shown him, making the occasional, inevitable error, but otherwise was filled by surprise at the natural speed his hands adapted to the tedium.

He still had a couple minutes to spare, and so checked out his reflection in the mirror, trying to dig up the root of Ms. Romanoff's frequent looks. He looked well enough—the slight wrinkles at his mouth and eyes maybe showed his drinking, and the loop of purple beneath his eyes bore the weight of fatigue, but otherwise he was put together. He checked his fly.

Natasha stepped in.

"Everything's updated."

She sat and with a tap of her fingers began her once-over. "Impressive." She cocked an eyebrow, he noticed. So he'd have to be on the lookout for such small giveaways.

Maybe that's just the way she is, he thought. Some people are loud, some quiet, some perverted and some sweet. Maybe she was just made of colder stuff.

"Follow me to storage," she said, grabbing a tablet. He trailed behind her. Denise sat at the desk, handing fliers to a middle-aged couple. Jake stood with his arms crossed in the eastern part of the gallery, head tilted away from the glaring white lights.

"Fucker," Clint said under his breath. "I know," Natasha said. He jumped erect as she approached and choked on his own spit, letting loose hacking coughs, pulling attention away from the colorful streaks on the walls. "His father's an important donor," she stated. "Can't make his precious baby-boy angry." Clint didn't know if he should laugh or not.

She pulled out her phone and shortly afterward his vibrated. "I need you to find the crates with the following tracking numbers." She unlocked the door to the storage room.

The room was expansive and still like a tomb. The unpacked works gave the air the electric stillness of church that Clint remembered from so long ago, when he prayed to be given a different life. Miracles can happen, he supposed. He checked his phone and went over to the wooden crates. She only stood at the door, observing, waiting for flaw or error. He found the boxes in a hurry and updated their database entries.

His mouth began a smug curl when the violent, vibrant strokes caught his periphery, a small painting, a foot and a half square by his estimate. It was jarring—greens and blues and intense, violent reds, as if the artist's mission was to attack and cut open the canvas. A man stood with his back to the viewer. Exasperated, or disappointed, Clint thought, by the look of him. His face was obscured, about to turn but also on the verge of walking away. It spoke his sense of denial—not his personally, but the tall fucking tower his life had built for him to climb over the years. He found no signature.

"Ms. Romanoff?"

"Yes, Barton?"

"Do you know who painted this one?" He pointed it out to her.

"An artist Phil knows," she said plainly. The answer was vague enough to put him off, but specific enough to satisfy the question. She's a tricky one, he mused.

* * *

"And you're sure you're okay with this," Clint called, pulling a plain black t-shirt over his head.

Phil was in the bathroom shaving. He stuck his head in, white foam bearding his chin. "I'm ready if you are," Phil replied with a soft smile, the close-lipped one that made Clint's inside flutter.

"And I get to tell them my real name?" He looked in the mirror, puffing out his chest.

"Of course. Tonight's about you." Phil walked in adorned only with a towel, his face fresh. He sat next to Clint. "You got Natasha to smile—that alone should be enough cause for celebration," he chided. "You're doing a bang up job."

"But what about the shipping order I messed up?"

"Everyone makes mistakes. Besides, if we really have to, we can just get any old can of Coke and display that." Clint accidentally had a piece delivered to Walker & Otterman in Pennsylvania, a gallery they sometimes have dealings with. Clint almost shit himself with laughter when he read the description: "One can of soda affixed with plastic novelty eyes by Kenneth Johns, 2013." It would be arriving next week, just in time for the new display.

"Besides, it usually takes her a full month to trust anyone with the more complicated coordination," Phil said, considering his expansive collection of shirts. "You got it in two weeks."

Clint blushed, still unbelieving. Maybe he could even get paid for this eventually.

"Aw," Phil cooed. "Look at my hard worker." He hooked his arms around Clint's waist, letting his bare chest meet Clint's skin.

"Do you think she'll like me?"

"Maria? Of course." Phil returned to his shirt deliberations. His windowpane-check suit lay on the divan, dark charcoal and pastel pink. His phone rang and he crossed and answered it while Clint made no effort to disguise his ogling. "Can you grab the dry-cleaning for me? I think I left it in the hall closet."

"Sure."

He found the bags. A small brown paper package caught his eye. It was curiously hidden behind the shoe rack on the far side, tied carefully with twine. Clint hadn't seen it before, but then again, he didn't make it a habit to snoop. It was a foot and a half square, unassuming but looming large in his mind.

* * *

Clint had been to this club only once before, the last time he and Barney were in New York. It seemed like the owners did well by it—new siding, bouncy leather seats, a full dance floor filled with laughter and riot.

"Well if it isn't Mr. Coulson!" A mustached bar tender clapped him on the shoulder. "Where've you been, baby?"

"Just been busy," Phil said.

The bartender smirked and scanned Clint head to toe. "Sure looks that way!"

Clint cracked a wry smile. "If only," he said.

Phil scanned the crowd. Clint wondered how many people tried to return his gaze. He forgot about "Daddy Coulson." He wondered how many people remembered the moniker. The bartender definitely did. That kid that was at the bar where Phil and Clint met did too. He sipped the fruity cocktail that Phil ordered for him that Clint never admitted to enjoying. Phil wrapped an arm around him, still chatting up the bartender, looking over his shoulder at intervals.

"Phil!" A woman's voice called over the laughing cloud of bouncing bodies. She gestured over to the corner through the dancing lights. Phil took his hand and led him to a corner booth, where a woman was seated. She had short brown hair, simple black top, and the unmistakable air of authority. She stood to greet them, hugging Phil and then extending a hand to Clint. "So you're Mr. Clint Barton. Maria Hill, great to meet you."

She motioned for them to sit. "So you've heard of me before, huh?"

"Of course. Phil here can't help but boast about his newest worker bee." She stirred her drink. "Natasha has good things to say as well. I was shocked, the Russian Rock is hard to impress."

"You'd think she ran the place," Clint laughed, right foot jiggling beneath the table. He waited for Phil's comforting arm to meet him, but his sides were bare. He guessed he could tell her his name, but not their romantic intentions.

"In a way she does," Phil said in a wizened way, deep and sage like, "She keeps me grounded. Sort of like how you did."

"Well, if you didn't like boys so much, I'd say you have a thing for dominating women," Hill teased.

Maria smiled partially, crossing her arms and gazing into the mesmerizing, red haze. She turned back to Clint. "Phil here sometimes has grand plans, hidden up behind the clouds. Natasha's a storm that blows them away, and I'm the stone that keeps his balloon grounded."

Phil laughed. "Poetic tonight, aren't you?"

"You're not the only officer with a artistic side."

Clint clasped his hands together on the table. He wasn't used to being "Clint" in a club. He kept his eyes to himself, knowing that Maria had a badge stowed away in a drawer at home. He had gotten used to off-duty patterns: the calculated nonchalance gave away her honed limbs. Her eyes also gave off the quivering, wandering quality Clint's did when he was seeking out his night's prize.

"So how long have you and Phil stalked the clubs?" Maria asked.

"Not that often actually. Just work buddies, I guess," Clint lied.

"Well, it's good that he's getting out again," Maria took a big swig. "Good old Phil, working his life away." Maria considered her drink, as if waiting for a cue from Phil.

"We used to work together," she said almost inaudibly beneath the music. "Law enforcement." She smiled in a close-lipped way, though he couldn't suss out why. Just as Phil kept her identity beneath wraps, he imagined he kept their arrangement so. Clint sighed. He guessed that he wouldn't be fully "Clint" tonight after all.

"Interesting. What division?"

"Detectives. SVU unit. Used to patrol with each other. Traffic, homicide…the whole nine yards until they assigned us there. High rank, if you can imagine Phil here chasing down pervs."

Clint looked to Phil, whose eyes drifted away, but somehow seeing the truth wash over him. He downed his drink. "Wow, that's gotta be rough. Taking in the bad guys," the half bad-guy said.

"Yeah," She finished her drink. "But we don't have to talk about that now. Tonight's about forgetting all that."

She ordered them another round, on her. The music changed to a rapid beat, and their drinking matched it.

"What do you wanna do?" Hill asked.

"Well," Clint considered his words carefully. "I just want to settle down, get a regular job."

"I hear that," Maria said. "You look like you've seen a lot of shit, Barton." Her eyes widened. "I mean that in the best way possible, of course."

"No offense taken." Clint laughed. "I've seen a lot, done a lot."

"Loved a lot?"

Clint nearly choked on his drink.

"Relax! I'm just joking."

"I thought you were a stone?"

"Just about serious things. But tonight's not a serious night."

She sprang up and snatched Phil's arm. "Come one, let's go dance!" Clint waved her off while Phil was drug into the mists, blue eyes searching deep.

He ordered another drink and scanned the room again. The college kids were probably mostly busy doing homework—something he could at last relate to with all the studying with "Mr. Coulson"—and there weren't that many Suits or city slickers, just the gradual birthday boy who had the misfortune of a weekday birthday and the people in their 30s in 40s. Still the crowd was active and sizeable.

Then he spotted her, Natasha. The storm was moving in on him.

Clint began to sweat but kept his composure. He could be here with anybody, after all. Maria and Phil were in the cascades of club-goers, and he was an adult, dammit, and he could be out if he pleased.

She stood beside the corner booth. Clint waved his arm over the seat—make her think he's had a little more than he really had. "Ms. Romanoff, surprise to see you here."

"I like house music," she said plainly. "Surprised to see you here as well. Come alone?"

"Just a couple friends."

She stared him down as if to test the veracity of the statement, but Maria's and Phil's cups remained, so she accepted it, finger twirling a stray strand of fiery red hair.

"I've been impressed with your work. Your organized, think clearly under pressure."

"Thanks. That means a lot—"

"You're also really well acquainted with our database programs, even though you haven't previously worked with Walker & Otogi."

Clint shivered, but glazed himself with a cocky air, never expecting it to don it for a supervisor, instead of an asshole with blue-balls. "Just a fast learner, Ms. Romanoff."

She paused, eyes narrowing, but letting his off-hours edge slide. "Tell me, Mr. Barton, how long did you work at Grayson's?"

Shit, he thought. He had fixed resume memorized a couple weeks ago, but with the increasing workload, he let it slide into the harder to reach recesses of his memory. Was it a yearlong internship? An actual paid position? He couldn't remember, not with the impenetrable suspicion eyeing him down.

He shrugged. "Long enough."

"Pity," she responded. It appeared to close the line of conversation, and he at last felt safe. For about a second anyway.

"So Denise tells me you have a few tricks up your sleeve?" She inquired.

He choked on his straw. "What kind of tricks," he gasped out.

"That little stunt you pulled with the circuit breaker cover. You've been so busy interning and working, going back to school, I am surprised you had the time to learn how to pick locks."

He scrambled for answers. Keeping his secret from Natasha had been one of the main rules for his stay. She handled all the social media, went to board meetings, galas. Any word that Phil had been blowing a street rat, and had seemingly given him a potential job because of it—it would ruin him, plain and the simple.

"You pick things up over the years," he managed, combing his fingers through his sandy hair.

She stood, heels clicking on the cement, her entire presence geared toward reading this strange man, interpreting his words and the crooked smile that he clumsily smeared on his face, begging, begging to be believed. "No funny business," she commanded.

She marched off, dress trailing like an inky wisp into the flashing lights.

* * *

"Maria's pretty awesome," Clint drawled. "Can't believe she talked the bartenders into letting her do a damn keg stand."

"She knows how to party. And being persuasive helps." Phil walked into the kitchen, over-confident in his control over his gait's sway. He chugged a glass of water, pulling out his decanter and crystal tumbler. "I am so glad I quit the force—she's tougher than I'll ever be," Phil grumbled. "Totally floored me in the alcohol department."

"I can see that," Clint said.

He stripped his jacket and shirt, sweat peeling from his back, and tossed them by his rucksack and books. He plopped on the couch, and Coulson joined him, buttons generously undone, suit jacket abandoned, weary satisfaction and the threat of early-morning sobriety lingering like a kiss on his brow. He took a long, dispelling gulp and moved in.

Clint grabbed the remote and put on some music, any music, desperate to keep the night going, and to drown his shivering paranoia. Ms. Romanoff's eyes lingered in the back of his mind, but Phil's sleepy blues soothed him.

"You're so good. So, so good," Phil panted as he found his place between Clint's legs, arms clumsily flinging at the couch cushions for leverage. "Can I?"

"Oh Phil, yes," Clint gasped. Heat seized them but they were only sober enough to express it with the gracelessness of youth, tongues desperately seeking out each other's mouths like secrets. Phil ran his hands over Clint's sticky chest, then over the back of his head, sending a ripple through the nape of his neck and down to his crotch. Phil's tongue slid into his mouth, wetting his parched tongue.

"No funny business," Natasha echoed.

Phil began to rut against him, booze clouding the rules of Clint's stay, while desire and maybe affection took his heartstrings' reins. Celebration and sex ran through their veins, they wanted to mark each other and Clint's future success, to declare indelibly on their calendar, "Clint was not a fuck up."

"Phil," Clint pulled away. "Phil, wait."

He relented. "Is something wrong?" he partially slurred, eyes crystal clear.

"We need to…we should wait like we said," Clint murmured. "We shouldn't jump the gun or anything." Clint saw the heat rush out of his blue eyes, letting the sober wash of responsibility rush in and stagnate.

Phil sighed and sat down on his side of the couch, buttoning up his shirt a few notches. "You're right," he said, pulling him over anyway, resting his arm on Clint's bare shoulder, fingers gliding through his straw colored hair. Phil put his feet up.

Clint nestled in his chest. Phil reached over and grabbed the remote and put on some music. "Chill," Clint hummed. They sat like that for a while, but in the wake of their roughhousing, a question beat in Clint's heart and at his temples. He thought of Maria walking on the street, concerned and stalwart, a mission on her mind and an itch in her heart. The scratch of Phil's hands reminded him of the New York—he wondered where Phil built up his calluses.

"So you had a good time tonight?" Phil almost whispered, interrupting the thought.

"Yeah, why?" Clint buried is face in Phil's shirt.

"You seem distracted…just checking in."

Clint looked up at him, hesitation dancing on his lips. "C-can I ask you something?"

"Anything you want."

Clint bit his lip. "Why did you quit?"

Phil tensed for a split second beneath Clint's skin. He sighed. "A lot of reasons."

"You don't have to—"

"No, no it's okay." Phil straightened up, curling a leg on the cushion between them. "I guess we would have discussed this eventually."

Clint's heart pounded in his throat. He leaned forward and paused, as if any sudden movement would scare him off. Phil took his hand in his, brushing the palm.

"My father and my uncle were on the force and their father before that, I guess it's old enough to be called a 'tradition' among the Coulson men by now. I always thought he was a hero—fighting bad guys, making the world a better place. I used to call him 'Sir Coulson.' He never really had the time to spare for us, but I knew that his work was so important to him that I forgave him. And as I grew up, I knew I wanted to do my part, so I went to the Academy." Phil waved his hand in the air. "Threw away all my friends, my hobbies. Studied hard, trained harder. All to be like my old man."

Clint scooted closer.

"My first time on the beat, fresh faced and optimistic twenty-something year old, I stopped some little old lady from getting mugged. Felt like a goddamn hero."

"So you got a promotion or something like that?"

Phil shook his head. "Nothing like that. It took me years to become a detective. Just a pat on the back was all I received," Phil stared at Clint's hand. "I was okay with that, though. I didn't want a parades—I was just doing my job." Phil sipped his bourbon.

"So I went on like that, scuffling in the alleyways, putting away drug dealers, violent delinquents. But sometimes they'd get out and to the same thing over again. I got mad at myself, developed some bad habits." His eyes considered his tumbler, the brown liquid danced in it like sin. "But," he broke out into a smile filled with relief, "I eventually moved from the street corner to a desk. I…I was elated. I wouldn't just be arresting people, but helping the system prove who was guilty. What better way than to be a detective, I thought. Gather evidence, make sure people like that wouldn't hurt anyone again. All those tiny insecurities before they…didn't matter anymore. I was partnered with Detective Hill. She really cemented it for me, the importance of our work. She was the biggest hard-ass in the world, no one ever tried to bullshit her."

"On the Special Victims Unit?" Clint asked.

"On the SVU," Phil sighed. He covered his eyes, shielding them from blinding visions of the past. "We did our best. But our best wasn't good enough. See, my father…he always put on a brave face for me as a kid. I didn't know how tired he must have been until I weathered the real world. I can see him now: weary smile, fifth cup of coffee, poring over his notes when I was at home playing cops and robbers by myself."

Clint moved Phil's hand away. His eyes were red and glistening.

"Just…all those kids and girls…I've failed so many of them. Maria and I knew who was guilty, but courts don't like truths you can't measure and classify. Even saw the rooms and mattresses where the deeds were done. Made you want to believe in God." He finished the tumbler and breathed deeply.

"And sometimes, as much info we had built up, no matter how closely we stuck to code…some of them just slipped through our fingers. Can't testify on instinct and intuition alone. Had the chief ream me out for getting too emotionally involved, said I had a 'Hero Complex.' That happened on more than one occasion."

They sat in quiet. Phil breathed deeply, warding off surges in his gut. Clint didn't see the roil, instead he adored the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes, signals of time spent worrying and fighting and striving to put the bad guys away, comforting the wounded. Hell, maybe he met a family like his: drunk parents, shattered mirrors and burning cigarettes. Maybe somewhere, a small iteration of himself was in foster care, keeping his eyes on the path ahead, ignoring the forest of ghosts behind him.

"But you must've helped someone Phil," Clint interjected. "Even if you saved just one person…it makes it all worth it, doesn't it?"

Phil smiled weakly and held Clint's gaze. "It did." He broke into a pathetic smile. "That became a sort of mantra for me. Needed it to make it through the shit. Maria was always better at distancing herself from a case." Phil finished the tumbler. "If I could have taken some of that hurt on my shoulders, brightened the horizon for all those I've failed, I gladly would have. Eventually it all got to be too much for me. I gave up."

Clint pulled him in by the collar. "Don't you dare say that," Clint growled. "You did not give up. I'm right here." He took Phil's head in his hands and kissed him, all passion and debt.

Last night was the first time Phil and Clint slept in the same bed together. They didn't fool around that night. Clint was all sighs and backrubs until Phil eventually fell asleep under his palms. Maybe this would be their routine soon. Phil had terrible knots, hard like diamonds.

Clint slid out of bed. Phil clutched his pillow in his stead and continued snoring the morning moments away. Clint carefully shut the door and went to the kitchen. He started a small pot of water and set the eggs on the counter. He sliced oranges and decided, what the hell, to begin a pan of bacon. Phil would for sure like that.

While the water started its boil, he grabbed Phil's jacket from the oak chair and hung it in the hallway closet. He again saw the brown paper package. Was that one of Phil's "mirrors," he wondered.

Routine is what Clint Barton needs. He'd have to tip toe around Natasha, but he has conjured up bigger, grander lies before. He hoped Barney was watching.


	3. Chapter 3

The next few weeks went as smoothly as it could have. Installations, packing, taking stock and following Natasha's instructions down to the punctuation had become routine, if a little boring. She still handled him with gloves, but trusted him enough to call clients for purchase confirmations and outreach. Occasionally though, he would sense her eyes boring into his skull, as if trying to dig up a chest of hidden agendas. She never mentioned their run-in at the club and neither did he.

The gallery slowly became familiar in the same determined way that a cut heals, scabs and scars over. He even got used to his trousers. He got to say, "Walker & Otogi, Clint Barton speaking."

The other day a woman they met on an outing came in. Clint sweat—he remembered that day he was Phil's visiting brother-in-law. "They won't even remember what I told them. They meet dozens of new people every week," Phil assured him. She needed to be reintroduced and Clint sighed in relief.

Sometimes he went to lunch with Denise, even. He always observed how strange her eating habits were; she tore into her burgers and fries recklessly, but left the fronts of her shirts and the table spotless when she left. They never invited Jake, not that he ever displayed any inclination to go. He had other plans.

The first time they left together, she pointed to a bar down the block. "Three…two…one…and he's in, you owe me lunch." Clint wanted to scream. Jake had gotten brave in the last few weeks as, talking smack about Clint when he thought he was out of earshot. He started letting Clint pick up the slack whenever they had to work on a project together. Clint had put up with it but today Jake's high-proof breath was hard to ignore.

Phil and Clint spent fewer and fewer free days in the library since Phil let Clint study when days at work were slow and at night they had quiet dinner. Then, after they would finish cleaning, they'd get into bed together, Clint silencing Phil with deep, wet kisses goodnight if he thought aloud about work or a meeting.

Nothing of note happened until the week before his GED test. It was the middle of the week, and the workday was winding down with no troubles and even a shockingly brief list of tasks from Ms. Romanoff. Clint looked up from his laptop and found Jake looming over him. "Aren't you supposed to be working?" Jake asked, mustering his pose.

"Aren't you?"

He turned his laptop away from Jake's intrusion and closed his study aid.

"Maybe," Jake shot back. "Hardly anyone here, though"

"But we have attendees and it takes just one second to tear up these delicate pieces, now get back to the east gallery, Jake." Clint said, thumbing over his shoulder.

"You're not my boss," Jake drawled. He drummed his fingers across the desk, leaving a trail of smudges. "I've been here way longer than you have."

"A few months a long time?" Clint asked, glaring over the top of his Styrofoam coffee cup.

"Hell yeah it is!" He ran his fingers through his greasy hair that curled at the edges, as if still trying to escape last spring's lacrosse helmet. "And you should talk. Aren't you a little old to be an intern?" Jake leaned over the front desk, his cloud of cologne nearly stung Clint's eyes. He went back to writing an email Phil requested.

"Just got a late start that's all."

Jake scoffed. "That's a lie." He crossed his arms and slightly swayed in his spotless Nikes. "What was it? Not smart enough to graduate or something? You don't even have a high school diploma—I saw your studying website shit."

"How I spent my life before you drunkenly crashed into is none of your business," Clint said. He leaned back at his desk, trying to escape Jake's nauseating mantle. "And I'm trying to better myself—can't say the same about you." Clint asked. He started typing up an email for Phil. "Other than that, I don't have to tell you anything."

"I bet I could still take a few guesses." Jake winced, shielding a ray of sunlight that bounced across the plate glass windows across the street. "You're just some ex-con who thinks he can fit in with his betters."

"And I bet if I went to the Watering Hole and asked them, they say you were there doing shots on your lunch break. Again."

"Those fuckers don't know anything," Jake snarled. He took a deep breath. "But…I bet you could teach me a thing or two. We could help each other out," he offered.

"How?" Clint gave up his dismissing thumbing after the two young women clicked out the front doors on their stilettoes. Silence and the light buzz of the central cooling only met their ears, and Jake settled in the second chair behind the desk.

"I saw what you did the first day you came here. Teach me how."

"How to what?"

"You know, pick locks and shit like that."

"No way." He sipped his coffee again.

Jake rolled over, attempting a whisper that left marks of spittle on Clint's arm. "Think what we could do, man. We could break into one of these fucking lame-ass art galleries and take the good stuff, turn it around and pocket the cash."

Clint smirked, shoving the chair away with his toe. "You can't even send a fax, what makes you think you can pull off a heist like that? Get out of my face."

Jake dug in his heels and scooted closer once more. "Dude, my dad practically has this place in his pocket, if some shit goes missing here, he could just pay 'em off!" His murky eyes shot wide open, as if he laid an offer on the table Clint couldn't refuse.

Clint looked over his shoulder. Around the corner was the storage room, with the small mystery, the painting of the mysterious man. Phil stole a few precious glances at each and every day in the gallery, hands trembling in his pockets. And this kid wanted to take off with it.

"Get. Out. Of. My. Face," Clint growled.

"Teach me your tricks, or I'll have my dad throw your ass out of here." Jake stood up, rolling the wrinkled sleeves of his shirt to his elbows in messy clumps.

Clint choked with laughter. The kid had a couple tacky tribal tattoos and lanky, off-season arms. Clint rolled up his shirtsleeves, revealing the small tracks of scars he got running through forests and abandoned warehouses, from the cops, or crawling hands and knees from his father who littered his path with broken shot glasses. "You don't scare me," Jake muttered.

He sprung out of his chair and jammed his index finger into Jake's chest. "Get back to work, I don't have time to deal with your adolescent chit-chat, got it?"

Jake put up his hands and made a turn to leave. As Clint sat down he turned and knocked over the Styrofoam cup, spilling lukewarm coffee over his desk and into the crevices of the laptop's keyboard.

"Look what you did," Jake taunted.

Clint grabbed him by the collar and pulled him over. "Clean it up!"

Phil stomped over to the commotion, with Denise trailing behind "What is going on here?" He saw the coffee. "Get some paper towels, Denise. And both of you, in my office. Now." Clint shoved Jake away and followed Phil, heat seething in his cheeks and across the back of his neck.

"Sit down." Phil sat in his high-backed, plain, leather chair. "Now what is going on?" he said, keeping his voice featureless, but Clint knew better.

"I was working at my station," Cling shot a paralyzing glance at Jake, whose leg jiggled beneath the chair, as he rolled down his sleeves hastily and struggled with the tiny buttons. "Jake refused to go and do his job. He kept bothering me and I told him to leave. Then he turns around and knocks over my coffee. Laptop is probably shot now."

Phil drummed his fingers and nodded at Jake.

"I was just trying to help Clint out. I figured it was a slow day and everything," he slurred, "but he said that he didn't need any help—he was a real pain about it too. Then he knocked over his cup and tried to pin it on me." Jake shrugged, eyes scanning the surface of Phil's desk but never meeting his.

Phil removed his glasses and pinched his brow. "You cannot make a huge spectacle at the front desk like this." He released his grip. "You, Clint, are an adult—"

"So is he!" Clint argued. He relinquished with Phil's firm palm. "A shitty one anyway."

"You're the adult here. Don't stir the pot," Phil scolded.

Jake grimaced. "And Jake, I know that your father and Walker & Otogi have a business relationship, but that does not mean you can traipse around, inebriated anc cocky. Hold yourself to a higher standard." Phil twisted his monitor around and clicked open his security suite. "You see this? There are cameras in every room of the gallery, just in case there are any disputes. I will know if you are lying. Now go home and don't come back until you've cooled off." Jake stood and stomped out of the office, his footsteps ringing in the empty white cube.

Clint smiled. Phil looked at him, wrinkles forming in his brow. "You too, Clint."

"What? Why do I have to leave? He started it." Clint scuffled to the edge of his seat.

"Because you fed into his childishness. I know you're reliable, but I can't have you thinking you can get off scot-free, either. Maybe if Jake had some boundaries, we wouldn't be having this conversation."

He stood up and walked off, heat throbbing behind his eyes. "Clint, Clint," he heard Phil calling after him. Natasha's door was open as he passed by. He felt her eyes on him agian. He expected the same cold and ice in her glower, but instead he saw the softness of pity, perhaps worry dwindling under the shape of her irises.

He passed Denise, who was tossing brown, soggy wads into the waste bin. "I'm sorry, Clint, I heard the whole thing, I should have intervened."

"Don't be," Clint's voice wavered. "I shouldn't have 'stirred the pot.'"

She followed him to the lockers. "No, I should have, he is a true ass." She crossed her arms. "Do you want me to talk to Mr. Coulson? I haven't really told him about how much he slacks off, but what would it hurt? Maybe he'd be let him go."

Clint didn't answer as he slung his bag over his shoulder and walked to the front.

He stepped out into waning sunlight. He looked left and right and saw that Jake was smoking a cigarette on the corner, his hood pulled over his eyes. Clint tried to barge his way past but Jake wouldn't budge. "You fuckin' poke me again, I'll break your fingers."

Clint inched closer, looking up into his beady eyes, seeing his façade crumple under the burden of Clint's threatening stance. "I'd love to see you try." Clint shoved him aside.

He passed more galleries, all filled with fancy clothes and gold bangles and the bodies that occupied those. Clint rubbed his calloused hands. Jake Owen Sr. probably had the same sneers and defiant grins Jake had—maybe the small eyes that couldn't see past their gut. Clint chuckled bitterly.

Maybe Jake would test his mettle on the street. That'd humble him. But no, even if Jake quit or got fired due to Denise's testimony, he knew that Mr. Owen Sr., Millionaire, would swoop him up, placing him in another nest of golden twine and 40s, muttering threats he'd never follow up on and still naively believing that his son was an eagle instead of a vulture.

He kicked a can.

His hand felt his phone vibrate in his pocket. A text from Phil read, "Go to the library and study. We will talk when I get back home, ok?" Clint didn't answer. His shoulders primed themselves for the weight of the books he needed to get from their place.

He decided to take the subway. He glided down the stairs and swiped his Metrocard and decided to ride four stops and walk the rest of the way from the building.

Once there, he had changed into jeans and one of his ratty t-shirts. He passed a mirror and examined the lack of purple moons beneath his eyes. He peeked in the closet. The small brown package was still there, put in the corner like him.

He rode the silent elevator. His phone vibrated again. Once he was on the street, he decided to shut it off. He'd cool off without Phil telling him to.

A tap on his shoulder made him jump. "Whoa, whoa, calm down," Maria said. He apologized and she convinced him to grab some coffee with her. He recognized Phil's sure stride as he followed her to her favorite place. Police training, he guessed.

They sat in at wooden corner table. Maria draped her trench carefully over the back of her seat. She managed to coax out the incident. Clint's fist clenched and unclenched beneath the table. Jake still ran in his veins.

* * *

"You're that close, huh?" she commented. "To Phil."

Clint looked back at her face. Her gaze was deep. "It's that obvious is it?" His stomach wilted. Did that mean Natasha knew too? Did that mean all of the times he lied about his name and missed the warmth of Phil's hand against his while they worked or walked down the street—anytime that they weren't alone—were all for nothing? He sank in his seat.

"It's sweet," Maria said. She thanked the barista and blew on her coffee. "It was probably hard on him, sending you home you like that."

"Didn't seem like that."

"Don't be a brat. He has a business to run and he has to maintain his authority—even if you two are intimate."

Clint took a big gulp of his coffee, letting it burn his tongue. "We've only slept together once."

"Sounds like him," Maria smiled, not missing a beat. "He never likes to rush into things—he's a deliberate sort of person."

"I don't know," Clint sighed. "Sometimes I don't know if we're…god, it sounds stupid to say out loud."

"What? 'Meant to be?' It's okay, I won't judge you."

"…Thanks." She's done it. She's made him comfortable. It was the same manner she used during interviews with victims. She almost lounged in her seat. The drapery of her limbs seemed calculated as if she had turned a switch and now she was supportive and open. He looked into his coffee. A few grounds lingered beneath the opaque surface.

"I just…I wish he was more open about me—us."

"It's understandable, if you can believe it." She ordered another. "In business, you need to present yourself as neutrally as possible—friendly, but neutral. People respond to all sorts of things, sadly. Soft people can't make hard decisions." She searched for words. "He's like a secret agent, with his cold and professional exterior."

"I've seen it," Clint testified.

"It's something…he's been working on." Clint has seen that too. Phil would sometimes stoop down low to greet the tinier visitors. He'd look up and see the discomfort of their parents. He too would turn on a switch and go back to their deliberations. Business was business.

"Phil told me about his times on the force…how he'd get all chewed out for getting to emotionally invested," Clint said.

"Yeah," she stared wistfully at the ceiling. "I remember that." She returned the gaze. "Sort of like what happened today, right? You reflected Jake's anger—responded with your gut instead of your head—and got chewed out for it. Now you can either dwell on it, make assumptions about his feelings, or readjust and move on."

He hated to say it, but her professionalism was working its magic. "I guess so."

They spent the next couple of hours talking about art, the thrum of the city and its thousands of anonymous faces and the love and hate relationship that all city-dwellers eventually share with New York. She then showed him some pictures of a fresh-faced Phil Coulson in uniform on her pone. Clint said that he preferred him now.

* * *

As they left the coffee shop, she gave him a cautious smile. "I know what's going on…be careful okay?"

Before he could utter a syllable, she was swept up in the evening rush.

Phil was home a few hours later, laden with a full briefcase and a careful smile. Clint sat cross-legged on the couch, bag unpacked and books sprawling on the cushions, nesting like he used to before they started sharing the same room.

"You don't have to do that," Phil said.

"Do what?" Clint looked up from his reading.

"Move back to the couch."

Clint choked on his ramen. "I wasn't going to." Phil moved his textbook and sat next to him. "I was just studying."

"Well," Phil loosened his tie, "I figured since you were still mad when you didn't respond to my text. I'm just a little paranoid, I guess."

Clint put down his bowl. "You wanted to talk?"

"Yeah I did," he said. "Clint, you know that I care about you and that I've put you through some confusing things—the lack of public displays of affection, my over-cautiousness when we go out, that whole mess—but, regardless, I think I acted correctly today."

Clint crossed his arms, not defiantly but the way a mugging victim might cover his stomach. "You do?"

"Before you say anything else, I just want to say this: Jake's been walking all over the establishment ever since he got there. It was a mistake to take a client's son like that. The next time he comes back—if he comes back—I am going to tell him he is no longer welcome at Walker & Otogi." Phil pulled off his suit jacket and covered his eyes. "He's going to give back his keys and he's not going to receive credit or his stipend."

Clint almost laughed but for Phil's stony face.

"I'm not happy about it though—he's clearly a troubled kid."

"Well…he got what was coming to him," Clint offered. Maybe Jake had his own set of issues: he was left crying in his crib for too long, or Mr. Owen never attended his baseball games.

"But he's still an asshole," Clint thought.

Phil fell silent and clenched his jaw and frowned. "Too emotionally invested," Maria's voice rang in Clint's head. He was man full of pity not for himself, but for others, a rare breed.

He resolved to try harder; if Phil can make the hard play, then Clint could leave his bitterness behind. Right now the memory of Jake needed smothering.

After a few minutes of worry, Clint turned on the couch and slid closer. "You bring the whole office with you?" Clint asked, forcing a smile.

Phil nodded. "I had Denise round up all the applications that I had put aside earlier. If we're lucky we can get someone to fill the gap before spring semester starts."

"I can help…if you want me to."

"Well, maybe if you—" Phil was interrupted by two fingers pressed to his lips. Clint was suddenly on his lap and he wrapped his arms around his boss.

His breath was hot on Phil's neck. "I'm going to try even harder, Phil. For you," he sighed, "For you." Coulson rubbed his back.

* * *

Jake didn't come back the next day or the next. His absence bled into the following week. Phil frequently checked his phones, and sharpened his already diligent charging habits. At the apartment, in his office and even places where his phone service failed him like or the bowels of the library, he could be seen patting his breast pocket, sure there was a shiver of contact.

Clint was sure that Jake Sr. or whatever-the-fuck his name was would be bearing upon them soon, lightning added to the swelling tide in Clint's gut. In spite of his nervousness, Clint embraced the extra workload from Ms. Romanoff—just more opportunities to prove himself.

"Clint, today you will be showing the Schulers the new Forest Smith piece," she said in her usual commanding tone.

"Really? Doesn't Mr. Coulson usually work with them?"

"He wanted you to practice interacting with buyers directly." Her fingers vigorously tapped at her computer. "See how you function in a high-stakes situation."

Clint straightened his tie. "Will do."

"They'll be here in about an hour." Clint bounded out the door. "And Clint?" He stopped in his tracks. Natasha never called him by name. "Make us proud." He shook his head. Even when she was almost complimenting him, she clung to her distance. But he accepted it.

Their tour ended with the largest Smith piece, a triptych. They were coated with a thin veneer of white paint, with only a few, insignificant splashes of florescent purples and violets at their edges. "This work disregards the viewer. Unlike, say, the pieces that hang at the Met—your Parisian Historical monstrosities, your impressionists, and landscapes, schools that either approached the viewer with presumptions concerning their education, the malleability of their minds to form the artist's vision from all those small dabs and smears of paints, or present something as primal and intelligible as a swathe of forestry—Smith's work doesn't care to show you the whole picture.

Most Telling is the angle at which these small splatters approach the center implies that action rings outside the edges of the canvases. But these actions are secret, obscured by the framing. What's absent is the whole picture and the viewer is forced to forge meaning from the fragments. Ultimately, the triptych makes of itself and autonomous entity, " Clint posited.

Phil strode over to them, beaming and ready to seal the deal.

* * *

"Good job today," Phil said, tying an apron around his waist. "You made a solid, impression."

"Thanks, boss," Clint said, finishing the last practice test in the last textbook. Phil would grade it later. He placed it on the sizeable tower near the stout bookshelf. He wandered into the kitchen and looked over Phil's shoulder at the bubbling sauce. "I had a good teacher."

Phil hummed as he stirred. Usually a cookbook was propped up on the counter whenever Phil cooked. His output wasn't as appetizing as the picture, but Clint didn't care. He always cleaned his plate. "What're you making?"

"An old family recipe…well, spaghetti, but the sauce is an old family recipe, or so I was told."

"It smells good," Clint grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge. The cute little knot at Phil's back bobbed up and down as Phil's hand grazed the spice rack, as his wooden spoon traveled round and round the pot.

Clint filed through the CD rack in the living room, picking something to set the mood to match the Phil. He was swoony and wavering. He was perhaps too far through his bottle of wine, but Clint didn't mind. Earlier he had finished his stale pack of cigarettes, warding off tomorrow's dread in three-minute intervals. Coping is coping.

Before long, Phil summoned him to the leather stool at the kitchen bar, serving him a heaping pile of pasta and sauce. "It's not much, I know."

"Are you kidding, it looks awesome."

Clint confirmed it by digging in, while Phil refilled his glass. Madeleine Peyroux floated from the speakers, filling the gap and hiding Clint's slurps.

"It's okay if you don't do well. Tomorrow I mean," Phil said, serving himself. "There are always more chances."

"I know…I just want to have this over and done with is all."

"You'll get through it just fine," Phil chuckled. They dug in, staining the paper towels at their necks. "You know, my mother used to call this recipe her 'Good Luck Dish.'"

"Oh really?"

"Really. There's a story to it."

"Let's hear it."

"Well, as you know my father really devoted himself to his job. My mother used to call her gray hairs her 'worries.' Anyway, one weekend—I was nine or ten years old—she made this very recipe. He was pulling a double shift. He was called into an apartment in midtown, a nasty domestic dispute. The husband pulled a gun and aimed at my father's head. Fired twice." Coulson refilled his wine. "Both shots went through the hollow parts of his hat. He said he thought he was dead, a ghost. But as soon as he regained his senses he tackled and restrained the man. His hair was singed but he was completely unharmed."

"Oh, you're full of it," Clint teased.

"What? It is a one-hundred percent true story."

Clint got up for seconds. "Well, if your sauce can save lives, I guess I'll do well then. Then we can spend less time in the library and more time on the town."

Phil wagged his finger between bites. "Oh no, we're just starting. Soon you are going to take the SATs, then the ACTs—all the Ts—and get a degree, then we'll open a place of our own and we can be partners!" Phil slurred.

"You just want to date a college kid."

"Liar," he chuckled.

Over the evening they finished the pot. Clint struggled with the lump in his gut, but now it was caked with good luck. Phil snored on the couch and Clint cleared the dishes, the two drained bottles and loaded the washer. He checked the time. The test couldn't arrive soon enough, not that he wanted it to.

He left a tall glass of water on the coffee table within Phil's reach and crept into bed. He pulled up the covers high, hiding his head from autumn. He drifted off after a couple fitful hours.

Dream came upon him, violent and vibrant. Phil was stirring a pot of greens blues and a violent red. He kept his back turned keeping its contents in his shadow. He told Clint to color in millions of tiny, regular ovals with a giant paintbrush. Barney was there too and suddenly he found himself with him in an alleyway. The walls were high and blinding white. Jake had them cornered a gun pointed at them. Barney called out but his words didn't hit Clint's ears before Jake fired.

The bullets passed through him. Barney cried out and collapsed into pigment, his remains splattered across the edges of the blinding alley walls.

Clint snapped awake. It was 6:00 am. He was weary but aware. He found Phil asleep on the couch, lightly snoring. He draped a blanket over him and fixed breakfast, though he was still full from Phil's dinner.

He grabbed his rucksack, his finger grazing over the bullet hole. He made sure it had all the essentials—a scattering of pencils, scratch paper, and small study guide to go over on his train ride to Brooklyn. He watched the sunrise and pecked Phil's brow.


	4. Chapter 4

Clint returned to Phil's that afternoon. The door closed softly behind him. Phil only noticed him once he plopped on the couch, leaving his leather jacket crumpled up on the carpet.

"How was it?" Phil asked, fingers rattling on the keyboard.

Clint frowned and shrugged. "I don't know…not as good as I thought it would go, though."

Phil shut his laptop and turned to him. "Tests always feel that way. It will wear off in a day or two."

"What if I failed it?"

"Then we'll double our efforts and schedule you for the next one in February," he rubbed Clint's shoulder. "It'll be okay."

Clint looked at his fingers and the smudges of graphite. Each of them had their own little cubicles. There were a few dozen people there of many ages—some older, some younger than he. Phil smiled meekly.

The woman next to him finished each section ahead of time. Clint barely had enough to finish, let alone go over his answers. Maybe she was smarter than he was, or she had taken it so many times that she saw an inevitable rotation of test questions. "I guess so," Clint surrendered.

"That's the spirit," Phil said. Clint stood to get some water. His mouth was dry from the test. Maybe he had fried his brain. The kitchen's white tiles brought to mind the blinding alleyway in his dream last night, smeared with Barney's red. He was drained by the time he got to the testing center.

"How's your day off so far?" Clint called from the kitchen.

"Busy…and interesting," he answered.

Clint downed his glass and took a deep breath. "'Interesting'?"

"You know Jake's father?"

"I know he has you—what did Jake say—'in his pocket.'"

"Not quite. He's a significant client who makes donations. I had to make up a special name for the VIP list to make him feel special. It was more his idea than mine," he laughed. "Anyway, he RSVP'd for our Winter Reception. One of the first."

"Has he berated you about his boy yet?"

Phil sighed. "I figure he will give it to me at the reception. He will throw his weight around, that's certain," he trailed off. He stood and grabbed an orange from the fridge. "But, I want to propose something to you."

Clint's face burned. "What?"

"Normally we hire a third party to arrange the reception—food, drink, music, all that. But, since you have shown yourself to be quite the capable young man, Natasha and I wanted you and Denise to take care of it."

"You want to trust a guy who might have confused 'mitosis' and 'meiosis' entirely?"

"No," Phil stepped closer. "I want to trust you with it, Clint."

"Don't these things take time?"

"Natasha and I have it all charted out, and she has taken care of the art portion of the workload already." He leaned against the chrome fridge. "I want him to see what Jake's competition is capable of. Teach him a thing or two about hard work."

"Wanna rub me in his face, huh?" Clint chuckled.

"We might need to learn how to deal without his donations soon," Phil mused. "He and the owners need to see that we don't need him."

"I'll do it," Clint resolved. "Not for him or the others though. For you."

His head went fuzzy as Phil grazed his neck with his warm fingers. "What do you say we go take your mind off of that test, hmm?"

* * *

"Do you know how big of a deal this is?" Denise bubbled. "There are going to be a ton of people from the art world there and we get to take some credit for it!"

"Sound's good," Clint answered. He was distracted again.

Clint and Phil always planned out their routes so they wouldn't arrive too close together; that required Clint to ride the subway down and extra couple of stops and to walk back up two stops to the gallery, which stood two avenues from the nearest train. His visible breath reminded him that they hadn't covered what would happen once the city stubbornly began to accept the meager snowfall they'd be visited with.

He ran into Denise on his walk up and told her the good news.

""Good'? It's great," Denise said. "Connections are everything. It's all about who you know, or who the people you know know, you know?"

Clint laughed. "I like Walker & Otogi, though."

"You don't want to be an intern forever, do you?" she said, adjusting her ponytail. "And you'd probably do well enough in higher positions anyway. If Phil and Natasha trust you with this, then—"

"We'll see what happens."

Clint stopped in his tracks. He thought he detected the petulance of Jake's cologne, but it was just a Suit with a slight wobble to his step. "Is something wrong?" Denise asked.

"No, everything's fine," he said.

Clint spaced out on the rest of their walk. Denise was parts ecstatic and nervous. He nodded absent-mindedly, realizing that he shared her ambition and anxiety. He hardly noticed once they were there.

They made their way to the lockers in back. Clint put his backpack inside. Denise jumped when she saw Ms. Romanoff.

"Good morning. Kim, Barton," she crossed an arm and raised an eyebrow. "Are you both ready for the upcoming weeks? It is going to get very busy. But let us discuss this further in my office."

She led them there. They both sat down in the forbidding office. Ms. Romanoff laced her fingers together and rested her chin on her thumbs. "We normally have professionals do this. But recent events lead me to believe that we will soon have to adjust to more frugal measures."

Denise showed her confusion, but Clint hid the shame in his eyes by staring at his knees. "What if he fucked up by getting Jake fired?" he thought.

"But I have faith. Turn your anxiety into confidence and the reception should go smoothly. This will be a learning experience for all of us." She retrieved two folders from her desk. Clint gulped. They were pretty heavy.

"These are the arrangements that need to be made, as well as a list of vendors who we have had business with in the past." She turned her attention to her computer, as if to say that she would not be available, that they would have to figure it out on their own. Phil said that they both made the decision, but what was a white lie?

"Because of the unexpected nature of this project, we have decided to temporarily alter our hours," she said. "However, if we do not find a new intern before New Year's, Jake's stipend will be divided between you. I will be here for consultation, but I leave the bulk of it up to you."

"Yes ma'am," they said in unison.

"Now, if you will kindly open up for the day, I have some business of my own to attend to. Have the agendas read before the end of lunch hour. Tuesdays can be slow as you both know, so it shouldn't be too difficult."

An hour into the day and both were fortunate that Ms. Romanoff was right. Clint was on the front desk, while Denise sat cross-legged on the white bench. Phil came in late, tie slightly askew and phone in hand. Frowning, he looked ready to let loose a frustrated moan, but Phil calmed himself as he approached Clint's station. He eyed Clint's folder, glad he was able to keep another rant out of Clint's hair after seeing its bulging edges.

"I'm sure you can handle it," Phil said covering the face of his phone.

The folder's first page was the list of tasks: there was catering to take care of, invitations (paper and digital), updating their social media frequently and creatively, media outreach (newspaper, bulletins, the New Yorker), security, janitorial staffing, updating the website and contacting the artists for their bios, and planning the flow of the installation, each with its own lists of specifications and preferences.

"People look forward to this," Natasha had written curtly at the bottom. "And the owners will be there."

Her words stuck with him until their second meeting later that day. She crossed her arms and leaned back in her chair, making sure they both knew exactly what was expected of them. "Above all, be creative," she decreed.

His brain floated in the morass of details he'd have to cover. He almost missed the second stop down on the subway at the end of the workday. He stopped by a deli on the way home and picked up two sandwiches, though Phil didn't come home for his until the streetlights were on.

"I got you a sandwich…it might be a little soggy by now," Clint said. He was reviewing the pieces for the installation as well as the invitations from last year and the year before.

"I'm sorry, I'm late. Got held up at the office."

A pit formed in Clint's gut. "Mr. Owen?"

"Unfortunately, yes" Phil answered. He draped his jacket over the chair and loosened his tie. "He thought that coming to scold me on my turf would be enough to get his son his internship and his college credit back."

"What did you say?"

Phil rolled up his sleeves. "That I would think about it."

Clint closed the folder. "Dammit, Phil."

"Don't worry, I have no intention on doing so, but I need keep him appeased until the New Year. Then we can implement our plans from there on out."

"I thought you said you weren't under his thumb," Clint sneered. "And in the meantime that asshole will go on thinking that daddy can buy his way out of the holes he digs."

"I said he was significant, Clint. Significant enough that I will need to discuss it with Walker and Otogi themselves. Things like this do not happen over night." Phil unwrapped his sub. "We have to be careful."

Clint turned away from him. It was enough that damn suits and big-timers defended each other on their financial atrocities and tax loopholes. Hell, reading about it in the paper was harder. The newsprint made it real. But, Phil being part of that made him quake with anger. He shoved Phil's hand away.

"Jake's gonna get his, Clint…once they see the tapes and all the hours that Jake slacked off and his casual inebriation, I know the owners will agree with my decision and agree that we have to part ways with Mr. Owen."

"Oh really? Why's that?"

"Because reputations are important in this business, Clint. If we show that we let others walk all over us, it represents our business poorly. But," he paused to take a bite of his sandwich, "if we can amicably separate ourselves from their family, it will show that we have a spine."

"Well you better grow one really fast after New Year's. I need you to be on my side, Phil."

"I am on your side. I told you months ago that coming back to a normal lifestyle would take some adjusting. Adjust, Barton."

Clint breathed in and out slowly and deliberately, trying to control his surging gut. "Readjust and move on," Maria's voice echoed in his head. His breathing became soft again.

"And we can find other donors. If this reception goes well—and I know it will because there are two damn smart people working on it—then finding others will be all that much easier," Phil said from the kitchen. Clint heard the pop of his decanter's cork.

Clint's stomach reeled at the back and forth. On one hand he hated catering to those loathsome businessmen, but at the same time he understood the need for diplomacy. "Did he at least give his son's keys back?" he said after a pause.

"No, but I told him that I expected them in the post ASAP," Phil said, rejoining Clint in the living room.

"Well if he doesn't you need to call him out on it," Clint said. "We can't have those keys floating around."

Phil studied him as Clint stared blankly at his calendar. He didn't like slow retributions. He preferred bloody knuckles and the look in someone's eyes as they conceded, but if he was to blend in, become Phil's partner, as he drunkenly proposed, he needed to settle with smooth talking and discretion.

"I'm sorry, Clint," Phil said low, one hand clutching his knee and the other his tumbler. "I know this is hard for you."

Clint sighed. "It's okay. I'm learning."

* * *

The website and the invitations came first. The stationary was to be delivered in two business days, so they decided to get a head start on the e-vites. The crowd was large that day, so the two decided to meet at a diner on the east side after work.

"My studio apartment's a little crammed," he lied. Denise said that her roommate wouldn't have liked random men in their 30s hanging around.

The diner was a special place to him now. Clint remembered the plush booths and the chrome rims. During their romps around the country, he and Barney had eaten in plenty of retro-style diners, but none were nicer (or more expensive) than this one.

He counted the khakis and sweatshirts of the families who roamed the city for the first time. Familiarity lured them here, and in a way, Clint guessed that's why he chose this place that night. He remembered how he and Barney made up back-stories for the other diners, and how they sometimes incorporated the details into that night's identity.

One family in particular seemed wary, Clint noticed. Their accents sounded out of state, their words long in delivery, the polar opposite of the tart velocity of a New Yorker's tongue; their eyes displayed the almost cute paranoia of one riding the subway for the first time at night or walking down a dusky street, carefully guarded and vigilant.

He wanted to sit in the corner booth, the one he and Phil shared at the start of their journey, but it was occupied and they were shown to the booth adjacent. He remembered the way Phil had let his shirt hang open a couple buttons, the ruffle of his hair and his intense eyes as he laid out their plans.

Denise sat down and opened her laptop. Their website's calendar was easy enough, especially with Denise's creative flair. "I'm thinking something like the Christie's digital catalog. I like how it opens up like a paper catalog."

"I've seen those. Good plan." Clint felt the family staring at him. No doubt they sensed the danger in his past.

"And we'll put previews of the artwork in it." She rapidly typed up the script. "Do you have the high-res photos?" Denise asked.

"Right here," Clint retrieved the USB from his bag and before they knew it, the digital invitations were done.

They ordered fries and shakes and said their good-byes around nine. "The paper ones should be a piece of cake. There're just a ton of them, that's all," she assured him.

They parted on the corner and Clint made his way to his train. Across the sky, the sun gave its last and the city was coated in night. He enjoyed his stride and how he now had the luxury of ignoring the shadows and alleys.

When he returned to their building he felt wistful enough to check their mail once again. Empty. He knew his scores wouldn't arrive in paper for a while and that they'd be posted online before they were even mailed.

But he wanted to feel the weight in his hands. It's a part of growing up that he missed out on. He and Barney never got to open high school report cards, or acceptance letters or birthday invitations. Clint pushed the button to the twenty-third floor.

One time, they sent a postcard across the state and they tried to beat it there. They found it in the resident's trash and counted it as a victory. It sort of became a tradition between them.

* * *

A week later they started on the catering and other logistics. The mailbox remained woefully empty. "Give it time, Clint," Phil said. "It may take till New Year's if you're intent on paper." Clint gave a slight pout and finished his oatmeal. Phil thought it was cute, but made no mention of it.

After staggering his and Phil's arrival times yet again, Ms. Romanoff showed them to the storage room. The last of the pieces had arrived and she made her way out.

After some careful examination, Denise proposed that they should work on the menu, first. "So what? Wine, cheese, that sorta thing?" Clint asked, his voice reverberating in the storage room.

Denise laughed. "Didn't you hear what Ms. Romanoff said? She said that we needed to get inspired by these pieces, get creative. If we had wine and cheese, we'd get laughed at by the whole reception, then what would they think?"

Clint shrugged. He would've said that it wouldn't matter because then they'd be assholes, but he tried Phil's diplomatic approach. "That we're lacking in imagination," he said, walking over to the mosaic.

It depicted a cavern, wide and foreboding, faces hidden among the cracks in the tiles, looking everywhere but at the viewer. It shined like mother of pearl. There were other mosaics of coins and another of made of broken bottles. There was even one made of candy.

It was Clint saw a pattern in what Phil liked; he lingered on faces, paid attention to their gaze. Perhaps he assigned to them a name of each person he failed while he was still on the force, names he had tucked away and spent a small moment with each day. The small, violently vibrant painting of the man still lingered in his thoughts as well, taunting him.

He looked toward the rack where the small foot-and-a-half square painting was tucked away. Who was that man who turned his back so coldly? He thought the initials read, "S.P." but he couldn't quite make them out. In any case, they never displayed any artists with those initials, "S.F." and "S.R.," but not "S.P."

"Clint? Did you hear what I just said?" Denise urged him.

"Huh?" Clint retreated from his reverie.

"I said, that we need food that evokes the artwork." She joined him at the pearl mosaic. "Now, what does this make you think of?"

"The ocean?" he lied.

"Exactly! I think of sunsets on the water. So we can get some sort of seafood thing. Something light and easy to eat," she said, writing it down in her notebook.

"What about the one made out of pennies?"

"Well…hm…"

Clint rubbed his chin. "Something spicy. Something you'd get on the street corner…a dish that someone would pay for with change sometimes," he offered. Clint's done that more times than he could count over the years.

"See? You're getting the hang of it."

* * *

Clint walked home in the first snowfall of the year. Phil had a meeting but promised to be home in time for dinner. Sundays had turned into their date nights. Snow drifted and gathered at the curb. Business owners doused their stoops with salt.

This time last year he was in Chicago, sleeping alone in a Hostel, loathing the witless chiming of grating holiday jingles emanating from the lounge's TV and how it berated him from all the way down the hall. Luckily Phil didn't celebrate too much; "But you're still getting a present," he had said. "So there."

He checked the mail. Empty again, as always. He greeted the doorman and rode to the 23rd floor.

"This is a nice surprise," Clint said settling in next to Phil. He stroked Clint's hair.

"Tired?" Phil asked, putting aside his tea.

"Yeah, but we're almost done…I almost can't believe it," Clint chuckled.

"I know. Natasha filled me in earlier today. She's impressed once again, Clint."

"Set-up, catering, all the invitations and phone calls. I'm excited for a break," he sighed contentedly. He stretched his arms and legs and noticed a large envelope on the kitchen counter. Its side was slit open.

"What's that?"

Phil dangled a set of keys over Clint. "Take a guess."

"Finally!" Clint exhaled. No more Jake for sure and he was finally gonna get what was coming. If only Phil looked as glad as he did. He let it go.

"And," Phil stood and picked through the menus, "at this rate, you and Denise should be getting Jake's stipend as a bonus."

"That's great," Clint said from the bedroom. It looked like they were eating in tonight. "…Is his dad still coming?"

"According to his secretary. But, I will handle him. I don't want to spoil your good time. Besides, there is one more loose end to take care of," Phil said.

"And that is?" Clint raked his cluttered mind. He had memorized Ms. Romanoff's list by now, and he was sure that he and Denise had nearly everything covered.

"Tomorrow, we are going to the tailor's for a fitting."

"B-but, there isn't that much time before—"

"I've already taken care of it," Phil said, smiling.

Clint thought that Phil's meeting had ended early, and figured out that it was with the tailors instead. He undid his tie and sighed. Phil had said "soon," but he didn't think he'd be completely buttoned up this soon.

"There's stew on the stove if you're hungry, Clint."

Clint nestled in deeper, enjoying the smell of cooking on Phil's t-shirt.

* * *

In spite of himself, Clint cast a greedy eye at the ties. Hell, maybe he'd wear sock garters. "You always said how sexy I looked in my suits. Now it's time to return the favor," he teased in to Clint's ear.

"You're the only one to ever receive that compliment from me," Clint pouted. The place was small, the kind of establishment you need someone to point out to you. It was an extravagance unfamiliar to him.

During his hustling days he encountered the tacky kind ("No shit, he had his watches in a goddamn golden mermaid.") and afterwards, the quiet luxury of Phil's abode ("This couch was how much?" Clint exclaimed.), but this was like someplace you see in black and white movies, where the actress' eyes shined as bright as the actors' slicked back hair ("Kiss me Margaret, before the sun rises.")

"Very funny Phil," Maria said, crossing her arms and shaking her head.

"Look, she made it!" Phil said, walking over to embrace her.

"I'm just here to make sure he doesn't go overboard," Maria said over his shoulder to Clint.

"Ah, there's Phil!" a stout, gray man said from behind the counter.

"Good to see you, Walt," Phil responded jovially. They shook hands and Phil motioned for Clint to come over. He wondered who he would be today? Would he be a cousin? A long lost brother?

"This is Clint Barton, my partner," Phil said.

Clint gaped at Phil. Walt's hand hung in the air and Clint took it. "Good to meet you, Walt." Clint was all smiles. He ignored the fact that Phil was again spending a ton on something he had apprehensions about.

Phil handled a lot of the talking, with Maria chiming in every now and then. "It's for our winter reception. Clint and our intern arranged almost all of it. Think lights, music, fine food and fine drink."

Maria studied the pattern book Walt presented to her. "No tails, Phil," she implored him.

"Aw, do you have to spoil all of my fun?"

"What about that one?" Clint pointed to a one-button suit, with narrow notch lapels.

"Good eye, Clint," she said. "Very modern."

"Well wait a minute, what about this one?" Phil pointed to a slightly boxy, double-breasted suit.

"That's more for your age set…and build," Walt said, adjusting his glasses. "But let us decide in the back."

Walt led them to the back room. The floors shined beneath their feet, though a creak could be heard here and there. There was an abundance of light pouring in from the windows, lighting up the high-class upholstery and cream-colored walls. Clint realized he still wasn't quite used to it all. Modern luxury was one thing, but old roots dug deep. Walt probably made suits for some of the most powerful men in the city for years and years. He fanned himself.

"Now, if you'll step up here, Mr. Barton," Walt said. Clint stepped up on a small platform sheathed in burgundy carpeting, plush as money could buy. A tall three-paneled mirror stood before him. He puffed out his chest and braced himself.

"If you could hold your arms up level," Walt asked. Clint obliged and soon measuring tape was pressed up to his arms, legs, shoulders, chest, and he was almost alarmed at Walt's exacting pace.

"That'll do it, Mr. Barton," Walt walked off for ready-made suits.

First was Phil's selection. All of the buttons felt constraining, and the shoulders felt too boxy, and the sleeves made him seem wider. Phil shrugged and said that it was worth a try. Maria's choice was a little dated. The lapels were wide and he didn't care for pinstripes, likening them to the mentally taxing political cartoons depicting fat cats with turgid cigars.

Walt came in with Clint's choice and he was in love. It slipped close onto his shoulders, but not too snug. The narrow lapels made his shoulders seem more broad, but not bulky. He spied Phil in the mirror, adjusting himself.

Maria's eyes glittered. "Damn, Clint. You clean up well." Clint caught her meaning.

Clint never thought he would own a suit, let alone one from a place like this. Walt pinned the fabric along the hem of his pants and along the back seam, but it was almost as if Phil had had this made for him already.

* * *

"Phil…it's awesome," Clint said. He made a turn in the mirror. Not a stitch was out of place. So confident was Phil in Walt's abilities that he had it delivered directly from his shop, along with a shirt and the narrow tie that they all agreed upon.

Clint slicked his hair back and struck a pose. Phil chuckled in the corner, settling on a subdued charcoal suit and no tie. Clint decided to wear his boots, which Phil had shined to a mirror's gloss.

"Clint, I keep telling you that the suit is a present," Phil said, tugging his shirtsleeves so that they were just so.

Clint turned. "I know. Guess I'm just not used to gifts is all." He moved in close to Phil, licking his way into his mouth. "And if this suit's a present, then it looks like I'm gonna have to step it up," he whispered in between.

"By all means," Phil rejoined. After a few more seconds and before their suits became wrinkled he said, "Come on, we need to get going."

Hands shaking, Clint donned his leather jacket and followed Phil out the door, running the list again through his head, even though the installation was complete and the caterers were on schedule.

Outside the snow gathered in small drifts and salt cracked beneath their soles. Phil hailed a cab and opened the door, beckoning Clint to enter. He crawled in and settled by the window, his breath fogging up the hundreds of lights compounded by the holidays. Phil laid a hand over his. Clint slid over and rested against his shoulder, watching the lights fly by. Clint noticed how Phil kept his hand over his inner breast pocket. Maybe he was nervous as well. Mr. Owen was supposed to be making an appearance after all.

Phil checked his watch frequently while they came to red lights, his phone as well. Clint knew his face though, knew the itch to fight tugging at his jaw, but the optimistic brightness in his eyes were all that mattered to him.

Their cab made a turn through sparkling trees. They skid through the park and Clint felt an unabashed wonder for the first time in decades.

* * *

Clint was impressed. All the tweets, posts, updates, emails and stamps brought in a bigger crowd than he could have imagined. The crowd ranged from old-school jeweled decadence to the uber-hip decked out in black. Conversation was fervent, fueled no doubt by the selection of drinks from the open bar.

Denise was still a bit wary, partly from their post as monitors and partly from the butterflies of a job well-done that had yet to sink in. "What if one of these people get plastered and wreck one of the pieces?"

Clint thought for a moment. "I'm sure the older people are going to leave early and the younger ones are saving themselves for an after-party at some loft. I don't think there's any reason to worry. Besides we hired a couple people to keep a look out too, remember?"

"You're right. I just need to try to enjoy myself," she said. She saw an acquaintance in the crowd and weaved her way across the floor. "I'll see you later, Clint!"

Clint scanned the crowd. He spotted Phil and Ms. Romanoff, smiling and shaking hands, catching up in the fleeting moments when the crowd's tide was low. Her head tilted in interest and she laughed politely and he smiled endlessly. Phil was riveting in his suit and Clint couldn't wait to grab that collar and strip him. He waved for Clint to come over.

Clint saw a dignified woman and a suited man speaking with Phil. They lacked the spirited sway of the larger crowd. They were stately and intimidating. The woman finished her glass and politely refused a second from a server.

"Ah, here he is now," Phil said. "Would you like to introduce yourself?"

Clint gulped but remained composed, hands professionally quake-free. "I am Clint Barton."

"Eugene Walker," the man said, "good to finally meet you." Clint shook his hand, noticing the sheen of weighty cufflinks.

"Kaori Otogi," the woman said, holding out a hand from beneath her shawl. "Pleased to meet you."

"It's good to meet you both," Clint said. He clapped his hands together. "So you're here for the reception."

"Among other things, yes," Kaori answered. Her eyes surveyed the room. "Very good turn out this year."

"We've been keeping track of the planningp. All this without our usual expenditure, you ought to go into party planning, Mr. Barton."

"Well I had lots of help," he said, rubbing the back of his neck. "Denise, the other intern, helped too."

"Smart kid," Eugene chuckled. "She has it together alright. Too bad more aren't like you two."

Clint sensed dourness in his tone. He also looked around, but without Kaori Otogi's subtlety. No doubt they were on the lookout for Mr. Owen. But, Phil's smile remained vigilantly bright and Clint knew he helped him with the transition. Now they had to work out the kinks.

"Oh, I spy the Schulers," Eugene said, "I think we ought to go greet them."

"Yes," Kaori agreed, "I'm sorry our chat was so brief, Clint. I'm sure we'll talk later." She gave Phil a pointed look and he nodded.

"See? No problems," Phil said.

Clint fought the urge to move closer. Patting his pocket, Phil led him to a quieter spot. "Can you come to the office?" he asked.

Clint nodded and searched for Denise among the crowd. She remained careful, but more relaxed. Following Phil, Clint brushed past the wealthy elite, but the feeling of otherness was strangely absent tonight.

He could clearly handle himself in these situations as Clint Barton. He still hid behind their cloud of wine and sensible revelry, but he still garnered a few casual waves from the Schulers and others he had met and toured and chatted with. Hell, he was wearing a suit.

Phil unlocked the door and closed it softly behind him. Clint ran his hand over Phil's neck and kissed him. Reluctantly pulling away, Phil reached inside his jacket and pulled out a carefully folded envelope and offered it to Clint.

He expected it to be his stipend but was shocked to find stamps and the address of his testing center.

Phil handed his trembling hands a letter opener, but Clint went at it with his teeth. He crumpled the envelope and tossed it in the bin, letting the soft music and the din of the crowd fade into the background. Phil wove his fingers together. His heart matched his eyes' pace, beating in his temples until he found the answers. "Well?"

He looked up at Phil.

"Well?" Phil asked, eyes wild and loving.

"I did it," Clint said. Phil opened his arms and Clint nearly fell into them. The music and laughter rushed upon him. "Shit," Clint said. "I don't know what to say."

"I think we both need a drink," he said. "I'll need something to tide me over before tonight," Phil said mischievously. Clint returned the lustful grin, but knock at the door startled them. Phil had Clint sit in the chair and straighten his tie. Phil opened the door. "Yes, Natasha?"

"Mr. Owen is here to see you," she stated coolly. Clint didn't see her look his way once, but still felt her penetrating scrutiny. "Eugene and Kaori are on standby." Phil left the office, leaving Natasha and Clint behind.

She glided over to Phil's desk, where Clint was neatening his hair and tie. That was a close one.

"It's been quite the trip, hasn't it?" she asked.

"Definitely…is there anything that needs to be done, Ms. Romanoff."

"No, things are going smoothly." She approached and sat beside him, carefully setting her glass on a coaster. "And please, you can call me Natasha from now on."

Clint broke into a wide smile. "You got it, Natasha."

"I have to admit, I was wary when you first joined us," she said softly.

"Why's that?" Knowing it wouldn't misdirect her, he kept up his façade regardless.

"You are not an ordinary intern." She thoughtfully tilted her head. "No, you've led a…colorful life up until now, haven't you? And Phil helped you?"

"How could you tell?"

She scoffed and smiled. "You carry yourself differently. The way you walk, the way you talk. You run skip over some hurdles that stun others your age, yet you occasionally fumble over ones that are second nature to Denise." She took a drink. "You're probably lacking in education, but you're probably fixing that now too, along with the parts of your life that didn't go right."

"I'm that easy to see through?" Clint asked. Had he known, he wouldn't have kept up the act and maybe he could've seen this side of Natasha earlier. They fell silent, letting the chiming of glasses and cloud of voices fill the room. "I've also noticed the way you look at Phil."

"What?" Clint exclaimed.

"Don't worry. I've kept my fare share of secrets in my life." She took a swig of her cocktail like it was nothing, though he could smell it from where he sat. "Besides, I've seen the way he looks at you and…you've made him proud, Clint." She let down her hair and swept it behind her ears. "And happy."

Clint stretched. He looked at Natasha and she seemed to mean it, just as she said everything else, precise and authoritative. "You still want us to be careful though, right?"

"Of course…he's a complicated man. He wants to help but sometimes he gets hurt. Must be left over from his law-enforcement days. But come on," she said, offering her hand, "let's not get too serious. Tonight's a good night and you should celebrate."

She and Clint entered the eastern gallery. He stopped in his tracks.

"What's the matter?" she asked.

Clint recognized the man Phil was speaking to. Same beady eyes as Jake and cologne so thick that it rolled in like a fog bank. They wore the same kind. The Suit walked with a wobble over to the wine table and asked for a tall glass.

His mind retreated to that night. It had been just a couple weeks from before he had met Phil. He remembered the man's rough demanding grasp, the fingers wandering farther and farther down, his deviant chuckle and slur. Clint squeezed his eyes shut.

"No one can find out about this," Mr. Owen had said. "You're not the first and you won't be the last. No one will believe you anyway, so why don't you come back to bed?" Clint had knocked him out, leaving a welt on his forehead. He had met some vile men, but none of them had the same guiltless self-assuredness; he would say that he had been robbed, but even if he didn't, his wife likely knew about his habits. His gut squirmed.

Clint had seen photos of him and his wife line the hall. On a yacht, at a gala, hugging his wife, both visibly uncomfortable. His haul that night was light—a few watches and one of the picture frames that he no doubt hadn't missed.

Clint wiped the sweat from his brow and turned away. "Clint? What's wrong?" Natasha asked.

"I uh, I just need some air." Clint headed to the storage room for some cool air. It was darkened and he almost tripped over a crate of wine bottles. He sat near the packing station. He loosened his tie and tried to breathe. He couldn't return out there, Phil would see the look in his eyes. He'd pay too much attention to it and dismiss Mr. Owen. He'd react. Where would that leave him? Leave Phil?

Twenty minutes passed. He checked his watch. Almost 10:30. Denise texted him, "No problems here!" so at least there was that much. Soon the reception would wind down and people would be off. The crowd outside already sounded diminished. Phil would tell Mr. Owen off, and then Kaori and Eugene would arrange another meeting and all of this would behind them.

He heard a faint scuffling at the back entrance. He heard the key rotate. He crossed the room and crouched behind a crate. The door swung open. A tall, lanky figure stumbled in. Goddamn Jake.

"Fuckin' fuck," he mumbled fidgeting with the light switch. The room was illuminated. His hair was unwashed. He wore a parka over a dirty white t-shirt. His Nikes tracked the snow indoors.

"What are you doing here?" Clint demanded, coming out from his cover.

Jake laughed. His eyes were ringed with purple. Clint approached him but Jake warded him with quavering arms. "You're still being kept around? Well back off, shit-stick, I have work to do."

Clint scoffed. "How drunk are you?" Clint asked, squinting against the strong smells wafting toward him.

"What's it matter to you?" Jake took two wobbling steps forward. Clint took one back.

Clint made sure the attendees were none the wiser. "It matters a lot to me, Jake. Why don't you just come sit down and—"?

"No way," Jake growled. "I need this!"

Jake made a dash to the nearest drawer. His fingers fumbled and he pulled a garbage bag out of his pocket. Clint tried to pull him off, but froze at the feel of cold steel placed against his throat. "Back. Off."

Clint raised his hands. Sweat dripped from his forehead. He was staring down the barrel of a shining revolver. "Alright, alright."

Jake threw the drawer open. He dumped several small paintings inside. He knew their prices: four hundred dollars, seven hundred and fifty dollars, six hundred dollars. Jake whipped out another plastic bag and struggled with another piece. All the while the gun was pointed at Clint.

Clint assessed the room. Cameras dotted the expansive ceiling. He couldn't shout. He couldn't use his phone. Maybe he could make a move. Jake was wasted and slow to react. He could wrest the gun from his grasp and throw it across the floor.

Jake snickered. "You thought I wasn't smart enough for this. Shit's easy, I see why you got into this lifestyle."

"Think about what you're doing Jake. There are cameras all-over the place. You'll get caught."

Jake laughed as he moved across the room. "Whatever. Me getting fired was the worst thing to happen to this dump. My dad told me all about it." He rummaged in his pockets for more bags, deciding which painting in the racks looked the most valuable. He arbitrarily decided on the shiniest one.

"You guys are gonna run out of funding and you're gonna have to shut down," he whispered to himself. A woman laughed and the gun was refocused on Clint's gut. "Those cameras prolly aren't even on."

And there were fewer security guards this year, Clint thought. They had to be concentrated in the gallery space, where the people were. He figured that the locks in the back door were enough. "How'd you get in here anyway?"

Jake laughed cruelly and hiccupped. "I got copies of the keys done, you dipshit. Why'd you think it took so long for you to get them back? Slipped the guy a few hundreds and he totally forgot about the rules."

"Your dad know about this?"

"He doesn't know anything," Jake shot back. "Never knows anything."

"Really? Is that his gun?" Clint nodded toward the revolver.

"Maybe, maybe not. Ask any more questions and it's not going to matter to you." He wiped the hair from his eyes and moved on to the small rack in the corner, where the small, foot-and-a-half square painting was kept, Phil's mystery. Jake was distracted.

"Fine," Clint said, creeping closer. "Take those paintings, I don't care." Jake paused. "Just—just don't take that one."

Jake's mouth curled into a wretched grin. "Really? This one?" He dropped the bags and reached into his parka. He flipped open a penknife. In a flash the painting was shreds, red, blues and green flying in strips on the floor.

"No!" Clint shouted. He darted across the room. Jake elbowed him in the stomach. Clint took it and walloped him. A violet welt sprang across Jake's face. Clint strained against his grip. Jake kneed his hip. Clint's vision blurred. He shook it off and head-butted Jake. Both lost track of the gun, but became deathly aware when it fired. Clint heard Barney choke and saw the whites of his eyes. A chorus of gasps and shrieks sounded in the next room. The music stopped.

Clint closed a fist against Jake's head and toppled him. The room spun. His hands ran up and down his torso. His stomach dropped. He saw Jake's forehead bleeding. Natasha sprang through the door, livid. "Clint!"

"Shit, shit, shit," Clint muttered, eyes wide. He ran to Jake. The blood was only from a cut on Jake's head. His eyes rolled in his head. Clint heard the clatter of stilettos and shoes gather at the door.

"Damn it, damn it," Jake muttered, dazed. Clint scanned the boy. He saw the knife sticking from Jake's arm. His blood pooled pitifully on the floor. "Shit."

"What is going on back here, where's Clint?" Phil boomed. He pushed his way through the watching tide. "Clint!"

"Jake!" Mr. Owen shouted.

Both men ran over. Clint felt Phil's grip on his shoulder. "Look at me, Barton." Clint's eyes refocused on his. "Are you okay? Are you hurt?"

"What the hell is happening?" Denise shouted. She gasped at the sight of blood.

Clint shook his head and came back to himself. "What the fuck did you do to my son?" Mr. Owen thundered.

"Are you fucking kidding me?" Clint shouted. He stood over the man but he didn't seem to recognize Clint. He wanted retribution, but he couldn't risk reminding the man.

"Clint, what happened in here?" Phil asked. He noticed the bags and the mess, the chips of paint and the ripped canvas. "Denise, get the dish rags from the kitchen. There's first aid kit in Natasha's office."

Natasha calmed the crowd. She dialed the police on her cell. "Yes, we have a situation." Eugene and Kaori were at the front of the crowd.

"Jake barged in here, incredibly inebriated. He started stuffing our pieces in those garbage bags over there. Held me at gunpoint," he gasped out.

"Bullshit!" Mr. Owen interjected. "If you want to make believe that for one second—"

"Look around you, Owen," Phil said. "Garbage bags, the door is wide open. He's holding the damn gun." Mr. Owen began to speak but Phil held up his hand. "We have cameras in here recording 24/7. We'll know what happened for sure once the police are here."

Denise was back in a flash. Phil pushed Mr. Owen aside. Jake's parka was thrown aside. Phil slowly withdrew the blade. Luckily the wound was superficial. He tore the rag into strips and disinfected the wound.

Mr. Owen fell silent. His eyes darted between Clint and Jake. Jake tried to sit up, but Phil frowned at the mess and destruction and the deep sigh at the ripped canvas.

"Everyone," Natasha announced, "please gather in the front gallery until the police arrive."

Natasha and Denise herded the crowd out of the storage room. Walker and Otogi followed her throwing bewildered glances at Phil.

* * *

The police arrived fifteen minutes later. Each of the attendees was questioned, but their answers were all the same. Luckily they were few. The police copied the recorded footage after looking at it. Clint had his say after the viewing and his testimony matched what happened on the footage.

Jake was in an ambulance. He'd need stitches and a room to sober up in. Mr. Owen sat silently at the front desk as the police identified his gun. It was custom made.

Phil was asked to testify at the police station. They needed more details about the Owens' relationship to the establishment. Phil looked at Clint's rumpled suit and the trickle of blood running down his forehead. His stoicism collapsed as he got in the cab. The yellow car followed the flashing lights.

Natasha handed Denise her envelope, plump with Jake's stipend. "You've made us all proud tonight. You kept your cool. And apart from Jake, the evening was perfect."

Denise nodded and hailed a cab. She rolled down her window as the car pulled to the corner. "Text me if anything happens. Okay, Clint?" she shouted. He waved at her and gave her a weak thumbs-up.

"You look like you could use a drink," Natasha commented.

They both shuffled back inside. Catering cleaned up and was tipped generously for their endangerment. A few bottles of wine remained.

Clint plopped down in the folding chair. Natasha poured generously and sat, weary, but alert, as if Jake could reappear at any moment.

"Nothing's perfect is it?" Clint asked. "I get all of this organized, work so hard…and fucking spoiled brats come in and muck it all up."

Natasha was silent as she poured herself a glass. They didn't bother surveying the wreckage. All of it was in police custody, being held for prints and the like. Even the small painting was gone, swept up in the current. He couldn't hold it in any longer.

"Natasha?"

"Yes?"

"Who's the artist? The one whose work got shredded."

Natasha sighed and considered the wine swirling in her glass. "An artist Phil knew."

"No, you've told me that already. What was their name?"

Natasha bit her lip. "It is not for me to tell."

"I almost got shot today." His eyes met her. She gave in.

She tied her hair up. "His name was Steve Rogers." She sighed. "He painted it for him. It was a present of sorts."

Clint's ears burned. "How did he know Phil?"

"He discovered him. He was struggling. Like you." Clint's pulse raced. "Phil decided to feature him. Rogers was in debt and couldn't pay his rent. He was kind but troubled." She finished her glass, wincing as she divulged information. "Coulson gave him a chance and," she turned to the large mosaics hanging in the gallery, "they were close."

Clint's heart thumped in his throat. "How close?"

Natasha only gave him a look. Clint knew to stop asking. Coulson would have to fill in the blanks.

* * *

Phil got home at three in the morning. He nearly collapsed on the bed. They shared a deep silence. Clint rubbed his eyes to ward of sleep.

"Kept you a long time, huh?"

"I might have to go back tomorrow," he grunted. He removed his shirt. His fingers grazed the sheets.

Clint frowned. "Tonight was a failure."

"It was not a failure. You and Denise did us proud." He turned to Clint. "No one blames you for what happened."

Clint looked out the window at the dim roar of lights on the skyline. The shining steel of the revolver still stung his eyes. He lay down. "What's going to happen now?"

"Well, Jake is sobering up right now at the hospital. He's going to be questioned in the morning," Phil sighed. "His father is still at the station most likely. Absolutely raving and saying you set him up…he just can't believe that his own son would try something like that," he sighed.

Clint's temples throbbed. Mr. Owen. He was glad he was blessed with a dud. If every man who tried what he tried with him got the same, Clint would be able to sleep better at night.

"I hope he can get the help he needs," Phil said, heading to the bathroom.

Clint sat up. "You feel sorry for him?"

Phil turned on the sink. "Of course I do, Clint."

Clint sat up. "The one who pointed a gun at me? The one who vandalized thousands of dollars worth of art, who had his keys copied illegally. You feel sorry for him?"

Phil turned a tired eye. "He is obviously under mental duress. He's extremely troubled, Clint."

"You've gotta be kidding me. Phil!" Clint rubbed his eyes. "He has everything. His father has everything. They're both getting what they deserve."

"And what do they deserve, Clint? You got your second chance, why shouldn't he?"

"Because I didn't get a first chance! I never had the same roof over my head for more than a month, after my brother and I escaped. We had to worry about where my next meals were coming from and what we'd have to do to get them." Clint curled up. "Jake, he just takes and takes and takes and tonight he tried to steal from you! And you're defending them?"

"Giving my sympathy isn't the same as defending them," Phil retorted. He shut the sink off.

"And he's going to hire the best lawyers and his fucking dad is gonna try to get away with it."

"What did he take in the first place, Clint?" Phil asked, exhausted, exasperated and red. He sensed that there was more to Clint and Mr. Owen.

Clint slid down the wall and sat in the corner. "You remember what my brother and I called those men, Phil? The rich ones who thought they could buy us?"

Phil fell silent.

"'Suits.' Remember? Well, that man tried that shit with me. And he's still walking out in the open. Who knows how many he's…done that to?" Clint paused. Pity spread on Phil's face. He furrowed his brow and braced himself at the sink. He returned to the bed and held a long stare at Clint's feet.

"Clint, I'm sorry. I didn't know." Phil rested a hand on Clint's shoulder, but he pulled away.

He looked at Clint with wary eyes. They still burned. "Who knows? Maybe Jake will take after him. They use the same terrible cologne already."

"Clint that's not fair," Phil said. "You have no idea what Jake's life is like. You don't know why he uses alcohol as a crutch and you don't know why Jake wanted to get away so desperately."

"Because he was bored, Phil. He thought it would be cool and exciting," Clint stood up again. "And he's not the only one around here who drinks."

Phil groaned. "I do not drink like he does. I don't want to destroy myself."

"You said you were bad with stress remember? That you developed some 'bad habits.'" Clint stood over him. "You are not a cop anymore. You don't have to go saving everyone, Phil."

"I'm not trying to save anyone."

"You have me. You had Jake." Clint paused. Sense told him to back off, but the fire in him told him to shove back. "And then there's Steve."

Phil grew still. "How do you know that name?"

"Who is he?"

"Now isn't the time for that," Phil said pointedly. "We are both exhausted and still on edge from the incident."

"I've told you nearly everything that there was to know about me, Phil. Our parents, the circus, the stealing, and you won't tell me who he is?"

Clint marched to the living room. He tore open the hallway closet reached in back and felt brown paper under his fingers. Phil followed him but was paralyzed in the doorway.

"Natasha told me he was troubled. That you helped him…just like me." He tore open the brown paper bag. It was another painting, same as the other one. The strokes were free and violent. A man stood facing the viewer. Clint recognized his hairline. The initials in the corner read "S.R."

Phil swore and leaned his head against the wall. "Are you saying that I have a hero complex?"

"I'm not putting words in your mouth." Clint wiped away tears. "You pretty much said that when you told me about your detective days."

"That doesn't mean—"

"Then what does it mean, Phil? How many were there before Steve and me? Was Jake your next project?"

"Clint, it's not what it looks like," Phil said low. "You're jumping to conclusions."

He groaned. "Phil, I've followed your schedules and your regimen for half a year. I've gotten up and gone to sleep whenever you said to. Hell, I would've jumped through a damn flaming hoop for you. I was getting my life on track according to your prescription, so you cannot call me unreasonable."

Phil shrank away, hugging his gut.

"All this time I thought you were protecting us. 'This is Jonathan, my trainer.' 'This is Blake Henderson.' Maybe you were just protecting yourself."

He couldn't look at Phil. He pushed past him and closed the bedroom door. "I need to be alone," Clint said. "This is too much."

He lay face down in the pillow. Maybe he was doomed to be someone else's plaything. All the praise and sweetness coagulated in his conscience. He imagined Phil sitting in this very room, rubbing the sore artist's shoulders, whispering how famous he'd be one day. Practice, practice, practice and everything will come up diamonds.

The man who shot Barney would have had the best lawyers in the country. He remembered going back to the scene and the shallow grave he'd been forced to dig. He had run away.

Phil stopped knocking before long

In the living room he uncorked a bottle, head swimming in apologies and doubt. Tomorrow he'd tell Clint everything, he concluded.

* * *

Sun bounced off the television set and struck Phil's eyes like a punch. He groaned. Sun glinted through two green bottles on the couch. He slept in his trousers. Clint's face flashed before him, red and scrunched up. Steve's painting lay on the table, taunting him. He wrapped it up in the brown bag's remnants and put it out of the sunlight. The apartment was quiet.

He stumbled as he stood, struggling to gain his balance. The clock said read one in the afternoon and thirty-three degrees Fahrenheit. He knocked on their bedroom door. "Clint? Are you awake?" He knocked again and a third time.

He slowly opened the door. His eyes met an empty bed. He must have gone out, Phil reasoned.

He showered and shaved, trying to convince himself that Clint would be back any minute. His reflection was sad and pallid. He hadn't fully digested the weight of last night.

He had spent hours at the police station, defending Clint. The camera footage was irrefutable, but Mr. Owen failed to believe it. He said that his son wouldn't stoop so low. Phil could have punched him. "Now how would you know what your son would or wouldn't do?" he had asked.

The normally robust and loud man had no recourse except for making deals, but it was out of his hands. The district attorney would have no choice but to move forward with the case. "That's what I thought."

The cab ride back had passed through the park, but the snow was dark and devoid of its wonder and the brightness of Clint's smile. Then the fight happened. It was bound to eventually, he thought, bleary eyed. Clint was not accustomed to boring, civilian life. His mind must have been composed of blurry highs and hellish lows, painted over decades of abuse and hopelessness. He didn't blame him. No, part of the blame lay with him and his own secretiveness. He knew that now.

His temples pounded. They'd need to discuss it. And soon they'd be taking a break from the gallery, so maybe Clint would be less stressed out.

He took some ibuprofen and attempted to eat. Two o'clock and then three o'clock passed with no word from Clint. He tried reading, but he couldn't concentrate. Something wasn't right. His old law-enforcement senses sizzled in spite of the hangover.

By the time the sun began its descent his higher mind began to worry. He checked his phone. No calls or messages. He paced the room, throwing glances at the painting and the man that it contained.

Finally the phone rang. He didn't look before answering.

"Clint? Clint, listen I—"

He heard Natasha's patent sigh. "Phil, something has happened."

His pulse raced. "What's going on, where are you?"

"I'm at the gallery, doing damage control. I told Kaori and Eugene to contact me to handle the heavy lifting. But that's not important right now." She took an uncharacteristically deep breath. "I found Clint's keys and laptop. He didn't leave them here last night."

"Why didn't you call me sooner?" Phil hissed.

"My phone was lost in the commotion last night. I only found it two minutes ago," she reported. "Check your apartment and see if any of his things are there. And not the things you bought for him."

"Hang on." He ran to the bedroom. He ignored how Natasha knew about their arrangement. He threw open everything with a hinge. Clint's drawers were empty. His ratty shirts and jeans were gone. He checked under the bed. His bag was gone. All the shirts he had purchased for Clint hung in the closet, but not his leather jacket. They second set of keys to his apartment were tucked in the nightstand drawer.

Sweat gathered at his brow. He ran to the hall closet. Inside it hung Clint's suit. It was rife with wrinkles and dust from the struggle. A slip of paper caught his eye. His GED results were folded neatly in the breast pocket.

His phone vibrated again. "Natasha? I think something's wrong."


	5. The Ex-Detective and the Runaway

He called Natasha over as soon as she was done with Eugene and Kaori. She was tight lipped about the proceedings, but that was the last thing on Phil's mind.

She sat and looked at him with fire in her eyes. He broke down, telling her about how Clint and he met, the bars, dinners and lies. "I made a mistake."

She nodded and picked up Steve's painting. She remained silent. Phil knew what she was thinking.

He spent the next half hour constructing an action plan. Natasha proposed filing a missing person's report, but Phil shook his head. It was still too early to do so and it was the last thing he wanted.

"Clint wouldn't want to feel like a criminal. And if they caught him with stolen property…" Phil trailed off, zoning out. He racked his memories and didn't find any convictions in Clint's stories, but he wanted the warmth of Clint in bed, not seated across from him during visitation with prison guards watching.

He would hit all the bars and nightclubs and hopefully find Clint scouting out his next meal. Natasha was an extra set of eyes and backup. If that failed, he would shake down the bartenders as best as a civilian could.

Now he was looking for clues. In his frantic search earlier that day, Phil grazed over the fine details. He clenched his jaw as he rifled through the abandoned gifts, but he was lucid and determined, tapping deep into his old habits from his days on the force. He looked on the scene as if through a telescope, cold and efficient. He'd try to calculate Clint's plan as well.

First he looked in the bathroom. His toothbrush was gone, but not their shared toothpaste. In the kitchen he noticed that his water bottle was missing but not any provisions or supplies, meaning that he meant to completely switch back to his life on the street. He looked in the closet again and not even a damn scarf was missing.

He dug in the dresser drawers. Sure enough, Clint's debit and debit card were tucked in there as well as his real ID. "Dammit," Phil said. No trail of charges to follow either.

The only thing he took from his whole apartment was the envelope stuffed with his stipend. That could have easily gotten him a plane ticket. He quelled his gut, willing himself to dismiss the notion from his mind.

Natasha opened Clint's discarded laptop. She searched the browser's history. No Google searches. No directions or documents. "That's not good," Natasha said.

He held his blue debit card to the light. "Clint Barton" it read.

He was startled by Natasha's hand. "I'm sorry, Phil. I shouldn't have told him about Rogers. I'm responsible."

Phil sighed. "This isn't your fault. It's mine." Phil pulled on his pea coat. "I think he would have found out about him. Sooner or later."

Natasha swept a red lock behind her ear. "We need to get moving. It's dark out already."

Phil showed her out and locked the door behind him and as soon as they were on the street corner, he hailed a cab, directing the driver to take him to Chelsea. Natasha crossed her legs. Something sizzled beneath her skin.

"Why did you keep Barton's past secret?" she asked.

Phil could've denied it, but he knew Natasha and that would've insulted her intelligence. He was fooling himself trying to think she wouldn't notice how he and Clint were around each other. "I just thought it would work out differently this time."

She huffed, "You know what happened—"

"I know what happened last time," he snapped. They rode in silence until the cab hitched to a stop.

He tipped generously for the cabbie's alacrity as they stepped onto the curb. His watch read 9:00 p.m. He motioned for Natasha to follow. Marching through the salty slush, he decided on his first destination.

The Oasis boomed over on the next block. They both flashed ID and they were in. The Oasis reeked of the complacency that criminals often sought out. Phil had stopped going there years ago. On his way in, he saw a man try to stuff a one-dollar bill into the dancer's jock.

The light was low and the music was throbbing. A go-go boy danced on a nearby platform, forcing a smile. A mist machine sputtered above him. The place was sketchy and hadn't been updated since the late 80s and it showed.

Keeping to the shadows and dark corners, they scanned the dance floor, taking note of each stumbling businessman. He shuffled at his post, checking and re-checking his watch. More people slowly poured in, men around his age primarily and a few handfuls of college students who didn't know any better.

Still no sign of Clint. Sweat pooled at in his collar. He gingerly removed a photo of Clint from his wallet and headed to the bar and Natasha followed. The bartenders' tank tops glowed white in the black light. A fog machine coated the floor in mist.

"Finally!" the bartender yelled over the thumping music. "You shy? What can I get you?" Phil held the photo out over the counter.

"Have you seen this man? His name is Clint," Phil said loudly. He paused while bartender pinched the photo from him. "Short hair, ratty t-shirt."

"Listen, we get a lot of guys in here sporting the same look, why don't you cruise around." He turned back to grab a couple bottles, trying to ignore Natasha's glare.

"Just answer the question," Natasha said.

"No I haven't," the bartender said, shaking a drink while another patron pestered him. "You gonna drink anything or not?"

"Are you sure? When did you start your shift?"

"Are you guys cops or something?"

Phil snatched the photo back. "No." He patted his empty breast pocket.

"Then please move along. You two are blocking the bar." A suited, red in the face, shouted at the bartender. "I heard you the third time sir!" he shouted back.

* * *

"No shit?" Mandy said, passing the remains of a joint back to Denise. She pulled the blanket over their lap and exhaled out the window.

"It was nuts. Everyone was shitting bricks," she grunted. She passed it back. "I had to wrangle up people and keep them from spilling out all over the place."

"I can imagine." Mandy reached down and checked her phone. "You got all that money though, so that's a thing."

Denise laughed. "Yeah. Or rather, what's left of it after bills." Denise groaned and dramatically threw her head against the back of the couch. "Hopefully Jake gets locked away for a bit."

"Totally," Mandy yawned. She wandered over to the small kitchen and filled a glass with water. She jumped at the buzzer. "Oohh! That must be the food, can you go get it?"

"Yup!" Denise got up and stretched, pulling on a baggy sweater. "Let's see, keys, tip money, alright…we really need to get our buzzer fixed."

"Totally," Mandy said, lighting a cigarette.

She quickly stepped downstairs two at a time. She froze. She saw Clint staring off down the block, hands stuffed in his pockets. She could have recognized that jacket anywhere.

Cramming the ones and her keys into her pouch, she opened the door, hoping she wouldn't come across too high.

"Clint?" she said.

He turned around, eyes rimmed with sleeplessness. "Hey."

"What's, uh, what's up?" she asked. She already blew it, but whatever.

Clint silently handed her an envelope. His name was scrawled across it in what was unmistakably Natasha's curt lettering.

"What's that?"

"Take it. It's a gift."

"Clint, what's going on? Why would I take your money?" she asked. Her eyes darted between the turgid envelope and Clint's haunted face.

Clint frowned and readjusted his bag. "I don't need it," he said low.

Denise crossed her arms, shivering in her soles. "Is this about what happened yesterday. Nobody thinks it's your fault, Clint. Jake was bound to crack eventually." Her words came out in billows of fog. It was getting colder out by the day. "Do you want to come inside?"

"No, just—just take this okay? I just don't need it anymore. You should have it." He held out the envelope.

"Clint, I can't accept that. It's your money—you earned it." Her pulse quickened as the absurdity of it washed over her. Hurt punctuated his gestures.

Before she knew it, the envelope was shoved into her hands and his footsteps quickly retreated far down the block. "Clint, wait!" she called. She stepped down to the curb in pursuit, but bumped into the delivery guy. She paid him and walked down to the end of the block.

He was gone.

* * *

"Clint Barton?" "Or Lee?" "Kurt?" "Chad?" "Dennis?"

"Are you certain?" Yet another in a string of bartenders shook his head, rolling his eyes at what appeared to be a man obsessed. Phil's head spun, senses dulled by the roar of music and the thick, musky air. He could smell the booze wafting off of each breath, feel other's sweat slicking his skin, feeling the suspicious and pitying eyes on him.

It was one in the morning.

He clutched his fist whenever he had to list off another alias, remembering each ponderous silence the names gave rise to in Clint. He took the photo from the bartender. He had forced even more false names on Clint, more for his burdensome store.

A wobbling man on a barstool snuck a glance at the photo. "He isn't worth making such a fuss over," he drawled. Phil shot him a withering gaze and pushed his way through the crowd. Stray shadows played with his eyes. A stir there and Phil turned, expecting to see Clint. Another and he almost choked.

The lights shifted to a dark purple. Through the bodies he spied a lanky man. He could have sworn it was Steve Rogers, bobbing up and down, even had the same light hair. Phil rubbed his eyes, trying to shake Steve's blue eyes, then Clint's. Pushing everyone aside, he rushed out of the club. Cars roared past, pushing snow into the gutters.

Natasha followed him out into the cold. Snow fell limply from the sky, illuminated by the light pollution. They looked more like specks of ash than snowflakes. His mind was fried.

She stopped him from rushing off to the next bar. Brushing off the errant piles of snow, she settled on the bench. Phil sat. "This isn't getting us anywhere. It isn't efficient," she said.

"Do you have any other ideas?" Phil asked, depleted and deaf. "I am not filing a missing person's report. He'd never forgive me."

"I wasn't going to suggest that." She warmed her hands. "We need Maria's can help us."

"No police."

"That's not what I said," Natasha said flatly. Phil noticed the stiffness in her limbs, the way she tucked her hair behind her ear with such tense calculations. "We just need another set of eyes and ears. We need to coordinate, Phil."

"What if she refuses? Maria knows—" He was interrupted by a long sigh. "Right. You're right, she'll want to help." She'd also have a badge to flash—authority.

Phil sagged on the bench. His hair was ruffled and his shirt was drenched in others' sweat. Maybe she was right. She rubbed his back, a rare form of affection on her part. He must have been a wreck, he thought.

"When did you last eat?"

Phil shifted in his seat.

"That's what I thought." She offered him a hand as she stood. He took it, while on the other side of town Denise curled up under her covers, peering over them at the envelope tucked carefully in her sock drawer.

* * *

He walked to the front desk, which was supervised by a restless twenty-something. Combing his fingers through his hair one last time, he put on his authoritative airs. "I'm here to speak with Detective Hill."

The officer looked confused, unsure of how to proceed, but he called her extension and soon enough Phil had yet another pair of eyes scrutinizing his loosened tie. "Come on, my office is around the corner."

It was a small, plain thing, with worn, outdated wood paneling and grey steel furnishings. She sat at her desk, hands pressed together. "I got your voicemail," she started. "Where to start?"

Phil sipped his coffee. "I thought I was being careful," he started.

* * *

Denise chewed her nails and paced her room. Sunlight filtered through frosted windows. She opened the envelope and laid out all the Benjamin Franklins out on her bed. The daylight made them real. It was too tempting. Her cell phone didn't tell of any missed calls, from her friends or work.

No word about Clint Barton, though judging from Natasha's cool procedural habits and Phil's general social distance from the goings on at the gallery, she wasn't surprised that they didn't call. Maybe, they didn't even know.

She couldn't shake Clint's face. He was rattled, hollow. She started to dial Natasha's cell phone but decided against it. She remembered her face during the incident, like she was bracing herself for a torrent of crap. She didn't need another worry. For now she stuffed the envelope and hid it again.

She had no more finals and no packing to do. She decided to take a walk, making sure her phone was fully charged.

* * *

"I was wondering what his M.O. was," Maria said. She smirked. "Really specific targets, though it's not unheard of," she said, typing.

Phil's mouth was a hard line. "Any track record?"

Maria shook her head. "No. If nothing else, his brother taught him well in that regard. Those men were probably more worried about a messy divorce than some stolen computer or watchband. No reports of stolen property from men like he goes after, at least matching his description…unless he was stupid enough to steal a car." She continued clacking on her keyboard. Phil choked.

"Can you help me?"

"I will. But you'll need to talk to the chief." Phil stood up and walked toward the door. "And Phil," he turned.

Maria sighed. "He might be gone already. You'll have to get used to that idea from here on out."

"I know." Phil shut the door behind him and made his way to the chief's office. He somehow missed the smell of the station and the energy of the place, back when he used to play hero. He returned more than a handful of fond smiles and waves.

He heard the chief's booming voice behind the mottled glass. He steeled himself and knocked.

"WHAT?" he yelled. That was Phil's cue to enter, like in the old days.

Nick was arguing on the phone and winning. He was at the window, shouting out into the crusty alley. "We will have to see about that, good day," he slammed his phone.

"Well if it isn't Phil Coulson come to visit," he said, toothy smile breaking out across his strong jaw line.

"It's good to see you Nick," Phil smiled. Fury's energy never failed to lift him up. He sat down.

"What brings you into the station. Gonna take me up on that job offer?"

"Nothing like that. The gallery's doing well," Phil said, smoothing over his tone. "But my inbox thanks you for your enthusiasm."

"Well what is it? I'm pretty fucking busy." The phone rang and he answered it. "Hello?"

"I need to borrow Hill."

He pressed a button on the receiver. "Get Maria Hill in here." He studied Phil with his remaining eye, chugging straight from a pot of coffee. "Why does a civilian need a detective at his side? Ah, Hill. Would you know anything about this?"

She nodded, standing at ease like a soldier. "I don't need her badge, just her," Phil added.

"Need some muscle, huh? You lose something?" Phil's silence told him everything. "Old habits die hard don't they?" He cast a suspicious eye toward Maria and lit a cigarette. "I'll allow it. You got some sick days, Hill. Use them."

"Thank you, sir," she said.

They started to leave. "Just wait a goddamn second," Fury barked. They stopped in their tracks. "Now I know I owe you a huge one," Phil said pointing to his eye patch. "But if any of you misuse police resources for what appears to be a personal endeavor," he snuffed out his cigarette. "I'll have the D.A. on you faster than a junkie can pack his crack pipe, got it?"

Phil nodded. "Thank you sir," he said.

They returned to her office while she grabbed her phone and jacket. "No attempts at stolen identities, good fake IDs," she muttered to herself. "Clint was a professional wasn't he?"

Phil was silent. "He could be all the way to Chicago by now for all we know," she said. "If he kept his money."

"What are you saying?"

"I'm saying that he might be pawning some jewelry he lifted or he might be applying to work at a McDonald's for all we know. This isn't going to be easy."

"I never said it would be," Phil answered.

"At least he isn't a user," she sighed. "And before this gets any further, I need something straight from you Phil."

"What?"

"Why did you take him in? He's Clint…but he was also a criminal."

Phil paused and leaned against the door. "I trusted him. And I wanted to give him a choice his upbringing never gave him."

* * *

Clint sat on a bench near the edge of the park, shivering and spiting the snow banks. He watched the sun set the skyline on fire. Soon he'd be flying over it.

Every alternate minute he checked his disposable phone, waiting for a text back from some guy named Barry. Sis slick smile and the wry quality of his tongue and the sickening self-assuredness of his walk, punctuated by expensive patent shoes sealed the deal. He failed last night. He wouldn't tonight.

Clint waved the man over. "Aren't you cold, Jeremy?" Barry asked, leaning over for a kiss. Clint dodged it and gave him a hug. He was almost Phil's age, but his hair was thick and dark.

"A little," Clint said. "Let's go."

Barry led him through the subway system and the Village to a small Italian joint that his granny Francesca had recommended to him. Clint rolled his eyes. They were seated and Clint immediately ordered wine. "Now you're talking my language," Barry said.

They talked about nothing in particular, but the banter flew by smoothly enough for Barry to blush and play with Clint's feet beneath the table. He tried to summon up the same revulsion his body carried from his pre-Phil life, but couldn't find the bile.

Their dinner was too much like his and Phil's, easy and free of expectation, in spite of Clint's efforts to inject some.

Barry didn't speak in boasts but with the reserved naïveté of a college student excited about his student groups and philanthropy. Clint finished his wine. He was rusty and instead of drunkenly offering to rock his world, Barry, emboldened by the small buzz from the wine, asked him out again, reminding Clint of his phone number as they parted at the subway. Clint punched the bricks.

"Dammit," Clint muttered. Steve's painting, Mr. Owen's stench and the barrel of Jake's gun flashed through his mind, setting lose a low flame that spurred him onward to Chelsea.

* * *

Denise returned to the envelope when she returned from campus. But still the possibilities prodded her. Her friends had just told her about their plans to rent a cabin for New Year's. She had to beg off. Her cracked laptop screen also needed replacing and she had found dress for the Senior Ball that was sadly out of reach. With Clint's money, she could do it all if she budgeted well enough.

He had given it to her, after all. It was his money and there weren't any laws telling him he couldn't gift it to someone.

But Jake's misguided boasts reared up. "If you can get it for free, then why the fuck not?"

"Fuck that," she said. Still no calls from the gallery.

* * *

"Nothing here," Natasha reported over the phone. "Everyone ready to rotate?"

"Yes," Maria and Phil answered. She and Natasha were in other parts of town, searching and waiting for Clint to make a move.

Phil walked the few blocks over to his second post. The snow was coming down harder. It was the third time he had been there that night. Doubt started to set in. He was short with the bouncers and every man who paid him mind and cast an eye his way. Forty-eight hours since the fight. Clint could have been in Europe by now.

The faces all blended together in the lower east side. Trendy beards and studs, all emulating the dusty, ragged way of life that Clint was forced to adopt. He passed by the Thai place they ate the night they met. No Clint.

The moon had reached its peak and Phil could almost see it sink down in preparation for early morning.

The bar's low light was easy to hide in and the bartender ignored him this time. A ring from Maria.

"Hello?"

"Phil, should I check The Burning Gates?"

He winced at the utterance. It brought up a surge in his gut. That bar was trouble. "Just to be on the safe side," Phil said. Another man with sandy hair walked past. He must have been seeing things.

* * *

Clint chugged a glass of water. He lost track of how many places he tried. He's been striking out bad, tonight.

He was lucky that his wallet was still full. With some acting and good hand-work, the bartenders at the last establishment had, in reality, paid Clint to drink at their fine establishment to the tune of sixty dollars, small pickings for Clint's purposes, but a late start was better than a failed lift-off.

The bartender gave him a whiskey sour that he didn't remember ordering. A man, clean cut and friendly, like he hadn't yet lost the twinkle of childlike kindness, waved him over.

"Hi!" shouted the man. "Name's Michael."

"Barney," said Clint.

"You enjoying yourself?"

Clint nodded and flashed him a smile, but the man's brow furrowed.

"I've been watching you," Michael said. He paused and sipped his drink, Sprite with ice served in a pint glass. Clint recognized the deliberate, slow movements, and the sadness tucked between Michael's smiles much like how Phil used to smile when Clint told him his about his travels. "Do you need help?"

"Excuse me?" Clint asked.

The man turned around and reached inside the jacket draped on his chair. A pamphlet was offered to him. "Alcoholics Anonymous" was written in big plain letters at the top of it. "You seem…really troubled," Michael said.

Clint started to reply, but was stopped when Michael solemnly raised his palm up to him. "I've been there Barney. There isn't anything to be ashamed of. I used to have a problem too."

"Then why'd you buy me a drink?" Clint hissed.

"Would you have sat with me otherwise? I want to help you. There's no shame in admitting you've made bad choices." Clint saw the deep widow's peak, also like Phil's. He couldn't stand it, so he chugged his drink. "What? So you just go around spreading peace and good will? I don't buy it."

"Kindness doesn't always have a catch," Michael said. "Were it not for another's boldness, I would have cirrhosis by now."

Clint's cheeks burned red and angry. It was just another trick, a smokescreen. He spoke in the same placid, firm way Phil did and it made his stomach roll over. He wouldn't be somebody's charity case or project.

He stood up to leave and slapped away Michael's searching hand. "No thanks," he said plainly, tossing the pamphlet back onto the small round table. He got up and headed to the coat check.

He lit a cigarette once he was outside and inhaled deeply. He crouched down in an alley, steadying himself as the streetlights swayed in their place. It was a shitty night to try this, he thought. The snow was becoming deep and almost unmanageable for most New Yorkers. In Minneapolis or Albany, this kind of snow would have been a dream, but in New York people were easily dissuaded.

All the cretins he needed were probably ordering in and lounging around in Louis Vuitton sleeping gowns, looking at rent boys.

He needed a plane ticket, a big jump and he was never as good at grifting as Barney was. He needed a big haul. He still new of one other place, but it was pretty gross. But finding people who drank like fish there was pretty much a guarantee and at this point he anything he could fry would do.

* * *

Denise tried smoking again, but soon she found herself distracted and restless. She also wanted to go to a concert or maybe see a movie, but since New York was a hungry mistress, her budget had grown ever tighter. At least Mandy was generous with her stash.

She was going home late this year, after all the Christmas trees were abandoned in dumpsters. She re-read her parents' postcard from Munich.

The money had been moved from sock drawer to shoe box underneath her sixty-dollar bed frame. She counted the snowflakes, thinking and thinking.

After dinner, she tried reading, but kept seeing Barton's eyes. Something was wrong. But what would they be able to do about it. She knew Barton lived by himself and he never mentioned any family or friends, though she saw Clint and Phil leave together on more than one occasion. She wondered.

Maybe he really wanted her to take the money, though it was a slim chance she decided after some mental percolation.

After some minutes and hours struggling to make out the words in her book, she decided the only way she would ever be able to relax during her winter break was to call Natasha.

* * *

Maria flashed her ID. The bouncer gave her a dirty look as she walked in, suspecting her of most likely being one of the many misguided women thinking this was your normal, sequined, neon-lit bars. The Burning Gates was nearly pitch black except for the softly glowing red and orange lights illuminating the shelves of liquor.

She couldn't walk two feet without bodily contact, though she thankfully received a wider berth than other attendees for being a woman. Thankfully other than that she was mostly ignored.

She settled in and waited, picking a small, sticky table in the far corner. Light reflected in streaks off of sweaty faces and she got the distinct feeling that her lungs were coated in sweat. They thrived in it. She counted the number of stumbling individuals and the wide pupils when the light cooperated.

She almost began to zone out, when she saw him. It couldn't have been anyone else. She saw his features silhouetted against the burning lights and the way he cocked his head as he spoke was impossible to mistake. He sat at one of the few barstools. His tight T-shirt nearly stuck to his back from the heat radiating from the partiers. Several men were flocking to him, cooing at the bulge of his biceps and delts.

She had to wait and stick to the shadows and wait for him to become distracted.

The music thrummed louder and louder and the crowd roared for more. He led a non-descript man to the small dance floor. Maria crept closer, hiding among the faces and shadows. Clint danced chest to chest with the other man and leaned over to whisper in his ear. She forced herself into the soft glow feeling glares on the back of her skull.

She almost had him when the man pushed Clint away and yelled at her to back off. Clint turned around, wide-eyed. Just then the music shifted into something violent and throttling. The crowd was in ecstatic uproar and Clint darted toward the door.

"Shit," he muttered. "Shit, shit." In his mind he saw the plane taking off to California or Oregon or Idaho, leaving him behind in the city where he was finally the one who got fooled.

Maria struggled to break apart the sweaty bodies. "Move! Move! Shirt, Clint! Come back!"

They packed themselves together, desperate for release and here was this totally out-of-place woman prying them apart. She saw Clint at the coat check. He gave her a broken look and he vanished.

He patted the pockets and suddenly missed the fifteen hundred dollar envelope. He caught a cabby's attention. He didn't want to use Phil's money. To do so would be to acknowledge that any part of his kindness had been authentic. But he needed to leave.

They were on the lookout. He was being hunted. The cop was probably trying to bring him in, he conjectured, reaching into the pits of his mind to come up with the worst conclusions possible.

"Clint, wait!" he heard Maria call. He shut the door and crouched down in his seat. Maybe Denise hadn't spent it yet, he thought. Jake might have, but Denise was always frugal during lunchtimes, preferring three or four dollar joints. Yeah, he comforted himself; she's a good egg.

Maria whipped out her phone to dial Phil but a call from Natasha interrupted her.

"I spotted him," Maria gasped into the receiver. "Clint was at The Burning Gates."

"Is he with you now?"

"I lost him in the crowd. He's in a cab heading north on First Avenue. It didn't look like he'd got to anyone yet."

"If that's the case, I think I know where he's headed," Natasha said. She was running.

"Where?" Maria jogged to the corner, kicking down a snowdrift to stand out against the flow of headlights. She held her arm high.

"To his co-worker's apartment. Denise Kim." Natasha stepped out onto the street corner and raised her hand to hail a cab. "She just called me. Apparently Clint had stopped over at her place to give her the money he got from his internship."

"What?"

"And now he'll want it back. He knows we're looking for him. He's making his getaway. Get a cab and meet us at her place, I'll text you the address." Natasha hung up and typed the address into her phone and told it to the cabdriver, telling her there's an extra fifty in it for him if he gets there quickly.

* * *

Denise was finally relaxed. Her book had finally started making sense to her, all the dishes were done, she had a nice phone call with her mom, and soon Ms. Romanoff would be over to relieve her of the burdensome cash. Her winter break could begin and she still had some of her stipend left to dick around with if she was feeling extravagant.

Her door buzzed and she slipped on her flats and made her way downstairs only to find a stricken Clint waiting for her at the door. She took a breath and opened the door, envelope tucked away in her cardigan.

"Hi. Again," she started. "Uhmmm…did Natasha send you here?"

"Yeah," Clint said, rubbing the back of his head and puffing out his chest slightly. "She said that there were some tax-issues with giving you the money."

Denise narrowed her eyes. "Right…well, I still have it all if you need it back. But thanks for the gesture." She held out the envelope and he took it. "Clint, is something the matter with you? You seem jumpy?"

Clint held out his arms as he descended her stoop. "I just fucking hate the holidays, you know? Just feel like giving the world away so I don't have to deal."

She threaded her fingers through her dark hair. "Yeah, I hear you on that one." ("Munich is lovely. We are hard at work and thinking about you!")

He saw the cogs turning in her eyes. "And I guess I was feeling guilty about Jake's shitstorm…mood swings, make you do strange things, right?"

His stomach growled cartoonishly. Denise giggled, still buzzed from her last spliff. "Do you want something to eat? I have some leftovers if you want. It isn't much but—"

"No, I'm fine." He looked at her deflate. She wasn't so bad. If anything, she gave him hope, phony as the thought was. She was a good worker and never badmouthed anyone who didn't deserve it.

He liked working with her over the past weeks, made him feel like a regular worker bee. "I think I'm gonna head to that diner."

She laughed. "The fake-ass retro one?"

He smiled, "Yeah. Just feeling nostalgic, I guess."

She leaned against the doorframe. "Why's that?"

"I'm moving. Maybe."

"Then wouldn't you need the money?"

Clint shrugged and stuffed his hands in his pockets. "Not really…'easy come, easy go.'"

"I guess." She paused. Something about this rubbed her the wrong way, but then again, everything Clint Barton did always seemed a bit off. "Good luck packing then. Moving fucking sucks," she laughed awkwardly.

"You can come with if you want. To the diner."

She hesitated. "I'm paying." He waved the envelope and suddenly she grew really hungry.

"I'll be right back," she said.

* * *

"Thanks for trying," Natasha said, handing the driver the bonus she offered him. She slammed the door and walked up to Denise's building. Phil and Maria were no doubt on their way. She braced herself against a gust of wind and rang her apartment. And waited.

After a minute, she rang it more fervently. Another cab pulled up behind her and Phil and Maria spilled out.

"Is Denise home?" asked Phil.

"She hasn't answered yet."

"Call her cell," Maria said.

Natasha punched in Denise's cell. One ring, two rings. Phil looked as if he could jump out of his skin at any moment. "Hello? Denise? Where are you?"

Denise put down her mozzarella stick. "Clint and I are getting dinner. It's not a date, don't worry."

Natasha covered the receiver. "They're at dinner." Phil mouthed commands at her. "Really? Where are you eating Denise?" she asked. Maria went down the block to hail another cab.

"At 'The Sesame Bun'," Denise answered. "That one place Mr. Coulson took us all to that one time, remember?"

"Right," Natasha said, covering the receiver once more. "They're at 'The Sesame Bun,' Phil. You know where that is?"

"Yeah," Phil answered. He could see Clint across from him in the booth, face flushed and stoic.

"Thank you, Denise."

Denise tensed in the corner booth's seat. "Are you looking for Clint? I gave him back the money like you wanted, already. Everything seems to be fine. Well, that's not true…"

"We just need to have a word with Clint. He's been troubled since the run in with Jake."

"Yeah, he told me about that," Denise said.

"Just order dessert with Clint. It'll calm him down. We are on our way."

"Alright," Denise responded. "I will. He seems to be getting better," she lied.

"Thank you." She hid her phone as Clint returned from the restroom. He changed his shirt while he was in there. She picked up a fry and tried to pop it into her mouth casually and ended up smearing ketchup on her coat. Clint stopped chewing and went back to his burger, smiling sadly, taking in the faux chrome and plush red seats and the jukebox.

Across town, a cab pulled up to them and they all piled in, Phil told them the address and the sped off, all of them checking restlessly checking their watches.

* * *

"You sure you're not too…"

"Too what? Clint asked between bites of ice cream ladened brownie.

"I don't know. Traumatized? You had a gun pointed at your face. I wouldn't blame you or anything." Denise said. "I mean you can talk about it if you want to."

"There's not a lot to say. Jake has a lotta problems. In addition to being a shitty person." Clint said. Denise hummed and wiped off her hands with a napkin. "That's not all, is it?"

"Smart."

"You're running away from something."

"What makes you say that?"

"People don't go giving away fifteen-hundred dollars in cash."

Clint gave her a dead stare and she shifted in the booth. Her phone buzzed in her pocket. She saw the number. It was Natasha. Clint stopped chewing. "Uhm, it's my roommate. I'll be right back. Don't leave," she staid him. "I wanna help with the tip."

She fled to the bathroom.

"Is Clint still with you?" Natasha asked.

"Yeah. But you better hurry up, we're done with dessert and he has this weird look in his eyes," she said, peeking through the bathroom door.

"We're walking up to the diner now."

Phil trudged through the snow on the corner. He spotted Clint in the window and approached from the corner, out of his line of sight. He told Maria and Natasha to wait outside in case he made another run for it.

He strode inside and the hostess showed him to the corner booth when he asked. Clint saw him coming from a mile away. What could he do? He hadn't paid the check and there was only one exit.

He stiffened as Phil sat across from him, pushing Denise's plate aside and ordering coffee. Clint had never seen him so disheveled. His pea coat smelled of booze and the strange smell of disinfectant that wafted through bars and the stubble grew thick on his cheeks.

Clint crossed his arms and saw Denise waving to him from outside. Natasha said something to her, but he couldn't make out the words. Denise motioned for him to call her later and she waved goodnight.

"You look like shit," Clint muttered.

Phil didn't smile. "Before you say anything, please let me explain myself. If you are unconvinced by what I have to say, then you're free to leave. No one will blame you."

Clint crossed his arms and slid Phil's coffee across the table over to his side. "I'm listening." He didn't look like he'd stay for long.

"Just promise me one thing if you do."

"What?"

"Don't do this…don't go back to your old life. Take this." Phil handed him a sheet of paper. His test scores. Clint's fingers trembled as he took it. He jerked a zipper open and stuffed it in his bag. He turned his attention on Phil.

"There are certain things that I've kept from you. At the time, I thought it was the best thing for us." He shook off his coat. "You remember why I quit the force. I was too attached to the cases and it was wearing hard on me."

"You wanted to be a hero." Clint crossed his arms and stared at his plate.

"I did. After starting at Walker & Otogi, I thought that I left that all behind me, that I was ready for something new. It was exciting. I hated a lot of art—thought much of it was frivolous—but some of it was truly inspiring…I starting loving it more and more.

"One day, I was at a street fair. Mostly touristy, but I felt like walking around that day, I guess. Somewhere between the pashmina stands and the sausage carts, I saw a little lonely booth manned by a small young man. Wasn't even a booth, really. He only had a small folding table. Brown shoes, neat, combed hair, all nice and proper."

Clint looked up at him. "Steve Rogers?"

Phil nodded, mouth tight. "Normally stands like that don't have much to offer. But there was something about his work that really clicked for me. I can't tell you what it was.

"So I ask him about his work. He was a quiet spoken fellow and rail thin…Skin and bones. But he was happy that someone was talking to him." Phil sighed. His gaze remained firmly on Clint, as if he'd jump up and make for it. "He made his own paint; he'd suspend the pigment in resin, much like how Yves Klein did with his blues. Remember how I talked to you about him?"

Clint nodded slowly.

"I had to feature him in the gallery. His work was just unlike anything I've ever seen, like a forgotten artist from the Post-War period. And…I got so caught up in it all and before I knew it, he was a hit after just one showing." Phil ordered another coffee. "I was still afraid to talk to him. He had this vulnerable quality that I responded to. I knew it was a bad idea."

Phil rolled his sleeves up clumsily and Clint was drawn in. Phil rested his forehead in his palms.

"I was so swept up that, come time to print a bio about him, I realized that I never really talked to him before. We talked about art and the like, but I didn't even know where he grew up. After one of his showings, I asked him what he was doing with the money he'd made. He just shrugged with his bony shoulders. Laughed a sad laugh.

"'I'm going to rent my first apartment,' he said. I asked him if he was a student and he…he shook his head. 'No,' he said. I nodded and asked him where he lived. 'In a storage locker,' he said. I couldn't believe it. I asked after his parents, but he said they both had passed away long ago. I was so stupid." Phil shook his head.

"I told him that he needed to get out of there right away. His materials were expensive, so I had him figured as a bona fide starving artist—that's why he was so tiny, I thought. I invited him to stay at my place—just until he could find a place he could afford. He was a frugal one…he always seemed distant and shaken somehow but he was a good guy. I just needed to help him and then that'd be it."

Clint leaned in closer. "And he came to live with you too?"

Phil looked out into the wintry darkness and nodded. A woman started swabbing the tables, but she didn't interrupt them. Maria and Natasha moved into a booth by the door.

"He moved in with his ragged suitcase. He had damage and…I picked up on it. I couldn't help it. He wasn't twenty-four and he was a step away from homelessness." Phil spaced out, lingering on the smell of Steve's blonde hair. His smile. "God…my chief would've rung my neck if I had stepped over those lines…

"This was at my old apartment. It was smaller, more practical. He and I were practically on top of each other. Then, one night…I got drunk and…we started moving closer and closer. And the way he looked at me…like I was his hero." Phil sighed and sniffed. "That's how he and I started."

Clint was still.

"I gave him a job too. Sort of like the work you do. Walker & Otogi wasn't as big as it is now. We didn't have Natasha and my other assistant had moved. It seemed, well, perfect."

"But I was foolish. I was blinded by his kindness and his big blue eyes. He was just like a neighbor in Brooklyn. Dammit." Phil coughed to disguise the tremor in his tone. "I forgot that everyone has something to hide." Phil fell silent and covered his mouth, choosing his words carefully.

He folded his arms and continued, keeping his chokes down. "He was an addict, Clint. I should've seen the signs, but I chose to ignore them. Sometimes he'd spend the weekends away and come back floating on a cloud. I saw his eyes and his thousand-mile stare. And I couldn't do anything about it. The storage locker seemed less wholesome after that…art supplies are one thing, but heroin is another."

Clint's heart beat. He uncrossed his arms.

Phil's broke down and he cradled his head in his hands, elbows on the table. "I confronted him about it and he collapsed. He said the most confusing things, like how he was born in the wrong time period and how he didn't belong here, all these things about how lonely he was and how he wanted help but didn't know how to get it."

"'Wrong time'?" Clint asked. "What did he mean by that?"

"I didn't know. I still don't know, " Phil croaked. "He was always old fashioned. Held doors open for people, wore outdated suits. The last straw was when I found him in the bathtub, fully clothed, languidly singing along to Jo Stafford songs while his head rolled on his shoulders…He didn't even recognize me, he was so far gone sometimes."

"What happened to him?" Clint said, turning away from the wreck before him.

"I convinced him to go in for treatment. I had to hire a new assistant—Natasha—to help me with the gallery. I missed him so much. Eventually I grew to really trust Natasha and I told her about him while he was away. And then he was back and by then we had done so well with the gallery that the owners wanted to keep Natasha on. But I managed to create an internship for him anyway."

Something inside Clint clicked. He knew where this was going.

"Steve didn't like it. He didn't think his full potential was being utilized. And I told him he wasn't ready to soldier through the full workload yet, but he got more resentful. He never liked being underestimated. I couldn't even open a jar of jam without his trying first," Phil almost chuckled. "He started to ignore me at our apartment, stay out late and get in fights at bars. 'Defending people,' he'd say. I couldn't handle it. 'I'm just a pet,' he said." Phil covered his mouth with his palm, other hand wrapped around his wrist. "Natasha told me to cut him off."

"And then?"

"I gave him an ultimatum: either he shape up or I wouldn't be with him anymore. He nodded and then he was gone. Almost everything that was his was gone. Even his damn comb."

Clint was stunned. "What happened?"

Phil dabbed the tears out of his eyes. "I got a call at three in the morning, from the company phone. Steve…he was deep in it. He told me he was escaping. And I asked and asked him where he was, if he was safe. I finally got an answer out of him. He was at some place called 'The Burning Gates.' His voice was so small and far away. I was over there in a damn second, but what I found there none of my training could have prepared me for."

They both fell silent. A server floated on the rim of their impenetrable bubble, but decided against refilling their coffee, not wanting to be caught up in the tension. Phil covered his face and wept softly. Clint was paralyzed. They remained that way for what seemed like an eternity.

"Phil…" Clint whispered.

He blew his nose and continued, eyes red and blazing. "He overdosed at the club…in the backroom surrounded by fucking recycling and trash."

"I failed, Clint. I failed him and I'm afraid that I'm failed you." Phil refused a cup of coffee, even as the sky morphed into the soft blue glow of morning.

"You weren't a project Clint. I never—I never would have entered another relationship like that again. But, I just saw the hurt in your eyes…and I found that K-BAR in your backpack, when I sensed something off," Phil stammered, wiping his eyes with the back of his shirtsleeve. "I was greedy. I wanted to redeem myself and it all happened over again."

"Phil…"

"I know now it was wrong keeping this from you. I knew you were sick of being used," said Phil. "And I was using you." He was trying to pick up the pieces, sniffing and closing his mouth into a hard, somber frown. "Please, forgive me."

Clint was still. He swallowed, mouth dry. He couldn't quite believe it, but the tears told him that the tale was true.

"What about the paintings? The one at the gallery and the one at the apartment? Were they gifts from Steve?" he asked low, a knot forming in his throat.

Coulson looked up. "One of them was."

Clint remembered the one that was shredded. A man stood on the canvas, on the verge of turning back to the viewer and walking away; "When I find something that truly gives me pause, that challenges me, turns the mirror on my sorry face, well…it makes digging through the trash worth it," Phil had said all those months ago, right in this booth.

Clint looked out the window. The snow had stopped. Maria and Natasha had long since gone. "It was you, wasn't it? In the painting."

Barton stood up and sat next to Phil in the corner booth of The Sesame Bun. Clint burrowed into Phil's chest, taking in the smell of spilled booze and sweat and worry. He held Phil tighter and tighter, rubbing his back as he heaved. He returned the embrace, running his fingers through Clint's hair like it would be the last time.

"Dammit, Phil. Dammit."

He meant, "I love you. Dammit."

* * *

The rest of the early morning was a blur. Clint lay on the couch.. The ceiling seemed to move above him. He rubbed his eyes. He considering studying the painting, now wrapped in the remains of its brown paper, but he decided against it. The shower hiss ceased and Phil stumbled out. He was clean shaven but his eyes were still red.

He wandered over to the couch and sat down. Clint lay in his damp lap. They were silent. Phil continued to stroke Clint's hair, as if he would soon fly away. But the two fell asleep like that, snoring loudly and developing neck cramps late into the afternoon when Phil was startled awake by a car alarm. He looked down at Clint who was still curled up near him, snoring.

He placed a hand over Clint's ribcage, feeling the rise and fall his breath until Clint blinked awake and smiled softly.

"Good morning."


	6. Epilogue

"Phil, I was pretty goddamn clear when I said that I didn't want to feel like a pet," Clint said tartly.

He groaned. "I thought it would be a surprise, Clint. I'm sorry. Can we move on? We have a lot to get through today."

"It was a goddamn surprise alright. I am an adult, I don't need you to coddle me 24/7." Clint's voice became more distant. "I am not some rescue." A door slammed.

"Clint?" Phil's footsteps rang in the empty room. "Clint, come back! You're acting childish."

The tape recorder clicked off.

"See how far we've come these past months?"

Clint had an embarrassed smile on his face. "Wow." He nudged Phil with his shoulder. "Sorry about that."

Phil chuckled. "No worries."

Their therapist stretched and walked over to the window. The summer sun was almost blinding that day. "I know it's a breech in therapist-patient etiquette, but what the hell." He pushed up his glasses. "I'm going to miss you two. You're definitely one of the more colorful couples I've had to work with, especially in this part of town."

"Aww," Clint said. "Well…we'll know who to call if we need more therapy."

"We're going to miss you too," Phil said. He held Clint's knee. "But I think we're ready."

The man smiled softly. He readjusted his glasses and massaged his stubble. "I'll send you your last bill. You know the procedure; don't be late, and I won't get angry."

"Right," Clint chuckled. "Sorry about the last time."

* * *

The sounds of drilling and hammering echoed around them. The space was finally taking shape. He and Clint came here to check on the progress every week. Phil poured all his money into it. They had to move, but Clint believed in him.

The head carpenter came to greet the couple. "How are you bearing the great heat today?" boomed the tall, blonde man, wiping sweat off his brow, hammer in hand.

"Could be better," said Clint, fanning himself.

"How go the renovations?" Phil asked.

The blonde man smiled wide and tucked a braid behind his ear. "Everything is going according to plan. Isn't that right, brother?" he called over his shoulder.

From across the space, a tall, slender man with slick, dark hair gave a thumbs up and immediately went back to writing on his clipboard and commanding the workers.

Clint held Phil's hand as he led him around the space, stepping over planks and sawdust. "And here'll be my office and right over there," Phil pointed to the corner, "will be yours and your interns."

"Mmm," Clint hummed.

* * *

"Are you sure you're still up for this?" Phil asked. He switched out of his somber charcoal grey suit into something more perky; he opted for a heather grey suit with a box-check shirt in periwinkle and sky-blue and a green tie. They had spent the day sitting in a courtroom with the Owens going over each and every detail from that night. After weeks and weeks of litigation, the whole mess was almost over.

Phil noticed the rings around Clint's eyes.

"One of our investors is gonna be there isn't he?" Clint asked.

"You mean that tech guy. The one with all the tablets and phones?"

"Yup," Clint called from the bathroom.

Phil tied his tie. "Then yes, he will be there."

"Then I'm going," Clint said. "It will be good to touch bases with him. Maybe he'll have another rich friend tagging along."

Phil laughed. After fifteen minutes of grooming, the two were in a cab, speeding toward Walker & Otogi. The summer sun set late, but the sun had begun its descent earlier and earlier each day.

By the time they got there, Mr. Smart Pad was already the center of attention, a woman on each arm, the smell of booze emanating from his goatee. While Phil was distracted with him, Clint splintered off and found Denise.

"Everything looks great," Clint said. He opened his arms for a hug.

"Thanks, Clint," she said. Her hair was tied back. "I'm so glad you both came."

"I can see what they pay you for," Clint said, adoring the minimally cool set-up.

She laughed. "I do my best."

Clint felt a finger prodding him and turned around to find Maria. "You made it!"

Maria hugged him. "There's a first time for everything," she laughed. "Though the crochet…what is that? The crocheted side of beef might need some explaining."

Their investor laughed loudly from the other side of the gallery followed by a cloud of others.

"He's deep in the bag, isn't he?" Maria said.

"He can handle it," said Natasha, cracking her rare smile. She hugged Clint then Maria. "You look well."

Denise begged off, saying she should see what havoc the billionaire might be wreaking, while Maria moved closer to the installation.

"You ready for your opening? You only have two weeks left."

"I had a good teacher. I'm not worried."

* * *

Dirty dinner dishes lay ignored in the sink. The stubs of two tall candles stood fizzled out on the small card table that Phil had set up. The white tablecloth was stained with wine and chicken tagine that they'd prepared together. A soft light emitted from the bedroom.

"Come on out, you're killing me here!" Phil said. He lay on the bed in the low light, sweating a storm in spite of the air conditioning. Stroking himself hard, he imagined Clint's display—the ripple of his chest, the heat in his hands.

He sauntered out of the bathroom, muscles glistening in the low light. Phil could hardly contain his excitement.

"Oh god, Clint," Phil said, cut off by Clint's searching tongue before he could say any more. Phil received him as Clint lay beside him, slipping off his boxers, letting loose his hard cock.

Clint made his way down, down, down, traveling across Phil's torso with his tongue, tasting the older man and savoring each bit.

"Shit," Phil gasped as Clint buried his mouth in Phil's bush, suckling the base of his member, savoring it like a desert traveler at an oasis.

Clint came up for air, "You like that?" he teased.

"God, yes," Phil whispered. His fingers found their way into Clint's sandy hair, guiding him up and down, up and down.

Clint found his way back up to Phil's mouth and licked into it, satisfying a deep and primal urge. Phil held his face in both hands, examining him with flared eyes. "You're beautiful," he said, guiding Clint's mouth back to his.

Clint laughed. "You haven't seen anything yet."

He leaped up to his feet, erection bouncing. He walked over to the dresser and pulled out the lube and returned to his position at Phil's waist. After wetting his fingers he slowly worked them into Phil's hole, eliciting a groan from the man.

Phil stroked his chest hair and closed his eyes, savoring the sensation of Clint's extremities, the softness of the bed and the subtle, wafting scent of Clint's body. "God, yes," Phil said, wincing with pleasure as Clint opened him up.

Clint leaned back down and nuzzled Phil's neck. "You ready for this?"

"Yes, Clint, Yes," Phil yelped as Clint hit a sensitive nerve. "Fuck," he whispered, grinning.

Cracking a devilish smile, Clint uttered, "We haven't even started yet."

He squeezed out a glob of lube and stroked his cock. He pushed his head into Phil slowly, until they were both seeing stars.

He slid in easily, halfway down to the hilt, but they'd work their way up from there. Clint sweat as be pulled out and plunged back in. Phil groaned and looked up into his smiling eyes. "You like that," Clint grunted.

"Yes, yes," Phil caught his breath as Clint quickened the pace. "Harder."

Barton was all too willing to comply and soon Phil was gripping the edges of the mattress, cursing up a storm Clint had never before had the pleasure to hear.

Clint guided Phil's ankles over his head as he pushed down deeper, struggling against the natural urge to blow. The mattress creaked beneath them and Phil squinted his eyes shut and smiled and laughed. "Oh, I'm close, I'm close!"

Clint ramped it up, digging deeper and deeper. Both were drenched in sweat and suddenly the Phil's jerky fondling ceased as he spurt forth. "Shit, shit," Phil swore. Clint grinned at his handiwork as he pulled out and jerked until he too was spent.

They collapsed into each other, breathing hard and sweating. Clint retrieved a couple towels and then they lay there, too tired for words, panting against each other.

"Ready to go again," Clint said after a time.

Phil chuckled. "Making up for lost time?" He felt Clint nod against his chest.

* * *

Clint watched the bustle tiny gallery, directing pieces and plaques this way and that. He studied one piece in particular very closely. It would have seemed almost diminutive against the white wall were it not for the vibrancy of the paint.

Phil's heels clicked up behind him. "Are you absolutely certain about this?" he asked.

"Yes," Phil said, breathing deeply through his nose. He was silent as the workers hung up the rest of the foot-and-a-half square pieces in vibrant reds, blues and greens, with "S.R." emblazoned in the corners, ready for the world to admire and maybe purchase.

Phil sighed. Clint threw and an arm around Phil's waist and squeezed tight.

The End


End file.
